


Goretober 2018

by Kitkatzgr8



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series), Youtube RPF, jacksepticeye, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: (I guess?) - Freeform, (Y/N) from the 'Who Killed Markiplier?' series, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amputation, Arachnophobia, Attempted Behavioral Corrections, Bandages, Being held captive against your will, Blood, Body Horror, Broken Bones, Bruises, Cannibalism, Chains, Character Death, Cheating, Claw Marks, Control, Creepy Crawly Death Dealers, Cutting, Death, Demonic Vibes, Dismemberment, Divorce, Dreaming, Drowning, Egos, Enjoyment from Pain, Eye Trauma, Eyes, Father-and-Son Bonding gone horribly wrong, Fusions, Gen, Goretober 2018, H E L P, Hanahaki Disease, Horns, How do I tag?, Human-to-Robot, I use too many tags..., Illness, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Insanity, Jacksepticeye egos, Kidnapping, Kinda gory i guess, Knives, Markiplier egos - Freeform, More eye trauma, Mouth Horror?, Nightmares, Nosebleed, Pain, Parental Yandere?, Patton just really loves his dark strange son, Platonic Yandere, Probably implied Logicality in most Sander Sides chapters because I stan the glasses gays, Reader-Insert, Ripping someone in half, Roman just wants to feel something, Scratching, Sewing, Sewn Together, Shock Collars, Spiders, Spiderwebs, Stabbing, Suicide Attempt, Teeth, Transformation, Unrequited Love, Unwanted Surgical Experiments, Valentines Day episode reference even though it's Halloween time, Visible Bones, Vomit, Who Killed Markiplier?, Wilford does a bad, Yandere!Patton, Yup let's throw some MatPat egos in here for no reason, blunt force trauma, bones - Freeform, coughing up blood, cutting through bone, dental, i mean i tried, i've never done this before so bear with me, manticore chimeras, multiple limbs, one-sided LAMP in one chapter?, posession, pus, ropes, some of these are crap but I am legitimately proud of some of them, teeth stuff makes me kinda uncomfortable so it's not too bad?, tied up, unprofessional dentistry, unwanted surgery, using pliers as dental equipment ain't a good idea kids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-02
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 17:58:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 44,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16163987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitkatzgr8/pseuds/Kitkatzgr8
Summary: 1. Extra Limbs2. Blood Sport3. Playing With Knives4. Horns5. Hey Batter Batter6. Drowning7. Transformation8. Oh So Many Eyes9. Infected10. Hanahaki11. Scratches12. Let the Blood Stream13. Insects14. Bruises15. Nosebleed16. Obsessed17. Electrocution18. Bones Sticking Out19. Eye Trauma20. Inner Beauty21. Ripped Apart22. Experiment23. Gouge It Out24. Amputation25. Dental26. Dinner is Served27. Revenge28. Hunted Down29. Sewn Together30. Til Death Do Us Part31. AftermathLet's do this.(thanks to @Nobutatan on Twitter for the awesome prompts)





	1. Day 1: Extra Limbs

**Author's Note:**

> So... I've never actually done one of these, but I figured I might as well try. Big thanks to Subtle_Shenanigans and their Goretober prompts (go check out theirs, it's off to an amazing start!) and the fact that they made it look so awesome that I just had to try it. 
> 
> Anyway, here's October 1st (late, yes, I know, but it's still not technically midnight where I live so I'm just gonna make it count.)
> 
>  
> 
> Fandom: Youtube RPF/Markiplier  
> Prompt: Extra Limbs
> 
>  
> 
> _No, it wasn’t the existence of the mirror that had surprised him. It was the reflection._

One moment, he was laughing with Amy over the phone.

And then the next moment, he vaguely felt the phone slip from his fingers, feeling like he had just been punched in the stomach.

His phone was on the ground, now. And, based off of the sound it had made when it hit the hardwood floor, it had either cracked or chipped. Mark could vaguely hear Amy’s voice calling his name, voice sounding tinny and distant from the now busted speaker of the device lying on the floor, but his brain didn't process that. His eyes were locked on the mirror to the side of him, attention solely focused on the polished surface.

It wasn’t as though the appearance of the mirror itself was what startled him. In fact, the mirror had been there for ages, set crookedly on a random end table ever since they had finished the ‘ _Who Killed Markiplier?_ ’ videos. A lot of the props from that video were still scattered around his living space- a cane in the corner there, crystal ball shoved between items on a bookshelf over there. Even though it had been nearly a year at this point, they still hadn’t gotten around to either getting rid of or storing away miscellaneous props that had been used in the videos. Among the chaos of their everyday lives, most things had just been shoved out of the way and then forgotten about in the making of newer videos and projects.

But he had to admit, the mirror itself was kind of growing on him. It wasn’t overly intricate; just a simple wooden frame with a few designs surrounding a rectangular mirror, but it was the only mirror in his apartment big enough for him to see more than just his head in. He really should’ve moved it by now, but it was in just the right place for him to check himself out right before he left the door, so he just kinda left it there.

No, it wasn’t the existence of the mirror that had surprised him.

It was the reflection.

Because.. it _was_ him in the mirror...

...but it _wasn’t_ him.

He was looking at a disgusting meld of way too many figures, different styles and clothing scraps, each from vastly different people, jumbled together in a grotesque mess. A bright ‘G’ glowed on his chest, looking high-tech and out of place on the unbuttoned and loose white button-up his reflection was wearing. An aura of blue and red shifted around his form, making his eyes hurt, his head throbbing in pain as a sign of the beginnings of a headache. A bright pink mustache twitched on his upper lip, even though he knew that his was bare, and a black superhero cape was hung crookedly on his shoulders, untied in the front and only really being held on his frame by his bright pink suspenders.

And then the burning started.

Where his skin seemed to boil and writhe, limbs burst out of his reflection’s chest, his side, his back, disfiguring the figure looking back at him even more. So, so many arms. An arm clothed in a doctor’s lab coat. A grey suit’s sleeve. A blood-covered arm holding a red-rusted katana. Another, another, and another, leaving Mark gasping in pain at the sensation. Each one moved differently, as if different pieces entirely, though they were still confined to a singular, pulsating form.

And then he saw his eyes, oh his _eyes_. They were nothing more than empty cavities, bleeding heavily as they stared unblinkingly back into his unscathed ones. Bile rose in the back of his throat, filling his mouth with an acrid taste as he tried not to throw up. He could feel the sickeningly warm rivulets running down his cheeks and mixing with the peanut butter spread on the lower half of his face, even though his hands were pawing frantically at his face, his eyes, feeling the smooth, unbroken and unbloodied skin there. This wasn't real, that wasn't him, he knew that, _he knew that._ Then why did he keep touching his face, trying to staunch a blood flow that didn't exist?

And then his reflection’s mouth started moving, even when his remained closed.

It started with one quiet voice, almost a whisper. But then another one, louder, joined. And then another. And another.

More and move voices echoed his ears, a new one seeming to join every second until the words were just a dizzying cacophony of screaming voices. It was the same, deep voice that he knew so well, just with varying degrees of tone, volume, and accent. He had spent way too many hours editing his own videos to not recognize his own voice.

He couldn’t move, not his eyes away from the horrifying image in front of him, not his hands to cover his ears. He just stood there, even as the voices got even louder.

And then, in almost startling synchronization, the voices finally banded together, and Mark was finally able to hear what they were saying.

_“Take_ ~~co~~ _nt_ rol _… b_ a _ck… take ~~ba~~ ck… con_tro _l_ _… control… coN **TROL**_ _ **..**.”_

And then, almost as suddenly as they had started, the voices cut off. The reflection snapped back to normal and Mark nearly collapsed, feeling a sudden wave of weakness wash over him.

And there he was left, shaking so hard he could barely stand, staring into frightened brown eyes that were staring right back at him.

 


	2. Day 2: Blood Sport

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 2nd- Blood Sport
> 
> Fandom: Youtube/Jacksepticeye Egos
> 
> Chase and Jameson take advantage of a nice Fall day to play a game of catch.

It would’ve been a crime to stay inside on such a nice day. Temperatures were dropping, the air was crisp, leaves were beginning to change color and fall. And so, Chase had been dragged out of the house by a smiling and eager-eyed Jameson, who had immediately begun pointing out the colored leaves, the beginnings of Halloween decorations being set up.

 _“And by golly, the scents! Pumpkin spice and such a delightfully fresh smells all around!”_ His fingers were flying as he continued to relay everything around him, slides flipping so quickly in front of him that Chase barely could read the words before the younger had moved onto something else.

He chuckled lightly as the other finally seemed to catch himself, falling silent and picking at his sleeved sheepishly. _“My apologies, I didn’t mean to get into such a tizzy about the season,_ ” his speech side flashed, hands signing to accompany it.

“Aw, nothin’ to be sorry about, Jamie!” he said with a grin, plucking the other’s hat off of his head and ruffling his hair. The other just sighed silently, crossing his arms over his chest and giving Chase a halfhearted glare at the childish gesture. Sticking out his tongue, Chase relented, giving the other back his hat. “We know that you didn’t get to experience last Halloween fully, but don’t worry, we got all sorts of plans to help ya get the full Fall experience this year!”

Immediately, he knew he had made a mistake. The other’s figure stiffened slightly, and ducking his head down slightly, he bit his lip, a nervous tick that Chase had noticed the younger ego had picked up a while back from Schneep. Last year’s Halloween wasn’t a common conversation topic, especially regarding the rather traumatic debut a certain dapper ego had made around the same time. It wasn’t the best way to come into existence, being possessed temporarily by a psychopathic ego, and then spending the next few months under constant supervision and paranoid protectiveness, unable to enjoy any of the holidays shoved into the end of the year. He could relate, though, and as it turned out, situations and his understanding had been the basis of their current bond with one another. And though he did enjoy that closeness, he still wished the youngest ego hadn’t had to go through what had happened similarly after his introduction to the channel, marked by his suicide attempt.

It wasn’t any secret to the others, nor Jameson himself, that Chase had a special relationship with the dapper gentleman. Him being the newest ego, and Chase still harboring an emptiness inside him from the separation from his kids, he had almost immediately adopted the younger as his own. Luckily for him, Jameson hadn’t seemed to have any complaints.

Scratching at the back of his neck awkwardly, Chase looked around quickly, trying to think of something to distract from the memories he had unintentionally brought up. “Uh, but… y’know what this awesome weather is perfect for?

Jameson halfhearted shrugged, looking up slightly to give a slight shake of the head.

Chase just grinned in return, reaching into his pocket to dig out one of the many items he always kept on him for his vlogs. His fingers caught on a small rubber ball, and he pulled it out with a flourish. Turning to the side, he looked around for a target, finally settling on a garbage can sitting by a tree in their backyard. A rake laid on a half-flatted pile of leaves near it, occasionally twitching. Looks like Marvin’s oh-so-amazing spell that he had been bragging about all week hadn’t worked out quite as well as he had hoped. But he didn’t have time to think about the masked ego’s unfinished chores; he wasn’t the one who was going to be chewed out by Schneep later. “Trickshot!”

The ball arced gracefully through the air, hitting the rim of the trash can and bouncing away. Chase scowled as he saw James shaking with silent laughter. “Oh, and you think you can do better?”

The younger ego just grinned, motioning towards Chase with a clear ‘bring it on’ motion.

They upgraded from trying to get the ball in the trash can, to trying to get it to bounce off the side of the house and into one of the various containers piled against the building that were used in Marvin’s shows, and then Chase turned towards the other with a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Jay, think fast!” The dapper ego only had time to blink before the ball hit him in the stomach, bouncing off of his form and rolling slowly away from him.

For a second, both egos just stared at each other. And then a determined look crossed Jameson’s face, along with a small smirk.

Chase easily caught the ball that was thrown at him, spinning around and flipping it right back at the other, starting an all-out war that only involved two people and one slightly-deflated red rubber ball.

Slowly, the throws got gentler, tapering down to a point where it was just the two tossing the object back and forth, no words being spoken anymore. And with a pang in his heart, Chase realized that this was the first time he had just played catch since… well, since the divorce. He felt a lump well up in his throat, but all he said to the other was, “...Fine, I guess I can admit… you might almost be matched at my skill…. But only almost.”

The other just grinned, adjusting his hat before catching the ball again.

 _“I kn **ew yO̸͈̾̎͌̑̑͛̓̿͜** u’d come **arou** nnn̴̩͐̀̃̂͝ṅ̶͇͕̅̄́̏͊̎͘nd!”_ his speech side proclaimed, and Chase frowned slightly at the loud crackling sound that accompanied its appearance. Something seemed off with the lettering as well, but the words were whisked away before he could get a closer look. _“ ~~Tho~~ uĢ̷͉̠̲̻̠̩̪̬̰͍̣͇̂͑́͌̇̔̓͝ **h, I still b** el̴̡͇̫͍̜͓̦̱̗̩͖̦̗̏͛͑̅̈́̉̊͂̕͝ͅĮ̴̨̻͕̲̫̭͚̥͙̀̏̾͋̇͑̅͗̓̌̚͝ï̴̡̡͎͕͇͌̽̇̒́͌͜Ȩ̶̰̻̻̠͕̳̤͚̦̇̅v̶̡͓͉͎͛́͒̂͠͝Ẹ̸̰̠̙́͂͘̚ͅE̵͈̜͊̇̊̅͋̏͋̿͝EEE thatt̵̢̗̬͇̦̺̘̖̜̯̖̃͊́ṭ̷̣̣̹̳̫̩̗̖̔̈́̉͑͒͛̚̚̚ͅͅ-̵͔̒̉̈́̉̊̐̚"̶̢̧͕̼̲̫̝̻̔̋́̐̋̓̓͋̍̿̈"̸̱̀̊̔̆̃̒͑"̵̧͍̭̪͚̳̜̠̜̘͒̌̆̅̃̈́̃͜͠_

And then the speech side jerked to the side, flickering in and out of existence before, with a loud screech similar to a projector getting stuck on a line of film, it stopped, and then disappeared for good.

Chase turned in confusion to see Jameson staring where the speech slide had once been, eyes blown wide in complete terror. His hand jerked up, and with a silent yelp, he quickly grabbed it with his other hand, forcing it back down. Eyes frantically turning on Chase, he took a step towards the other, desperately trying to sign something.

Before he could finish, however, his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed to the ground.

Chase stumbled at that, throwing a panicked look at Jameson’s fallen figure, then at the building next to him. The others should be right inside the door; should he go get help? And then his friend’s form began to spasm painfully on the grass and he abandoned that thought, running to his side as fast as he could.

But before Chase could reach him, Jay’s figure was jerked off of the ground as if pulled up by an unseen force. He seemed to wobble on his feet, listing from side to side, neatly-combed hair now falling in his eyes as his head hung limply. His hat laid forgotten by the two on the ground. Chase took a tentative step towards him, hands held out to spring forward catch the other if he fell.

“Jay, are you…” His words died in his throat as the other’s head snapped up at breakneck speed, falling limply to the side now, mouth pulled back in an almost uncomfortably wide smile, eyed staring straight into Chase’s.

His once blue, but now dark green and bleeding, eyes.

Head flopping to the other side of his neck, still smiling that too-wide grin, Chase could only watch in fear-frozen fascination as thick streams of blood poured from his eyes, dripping off the end of his nose, slipping past his lips, painting his teeth red.

 _“ H̸̡̪͈̪͈̟̰̥̠̲͖̙̲͖͑͆̀̈́̊͊͗̐̿̿ **e̶̫͕̜͍̯̖̞̣͈̭͂̑̔̀̓́̈̓͊̈́̕̕͠Y̴͕̮͍̤͖̣̎́̾͗̌̋̅̄̂̂,** ̷̣̭͊̐̆̿̀d̷̼̞̤͋͛a̵̦̬͗̏́̃̾͗͐͑͌̎̒̋͌̕͝D̵̨̡̢͉͓̹̩̲̣̬̣̉̋̀̔͜.”_ Jameson’s mouth flopped open and closed almost comically as the words echoed around the two, the raspy, glitching voice that haunted all of the ego’s nightmares invading Chase’s ears and making his blood freeze.

A flick of a wrist, a twist of a limply hanging hand, and in place of a ball there appeared a familiar knife.

 ** _“C̸̢̧̛̥̟̲͖̮̝͙̗̺̣͋́̃̾̆̿̐͊̍̚͜͝ͅḁ̴͓̞͐̈́T̶̛̮̩̱̒͆̈́̓͠c̶̨̧̨̞̻̖͚̲͖͉͇̊̽̈́̐̏̒͛̑͛̚ͅh̷̠̫͚̼̯̟̱͛̀̈́͘._** ”

And then there was a whistle of wind on steel, a burning pain in his stomach, and everything went black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some puppets don’t know they still have strings attached until they’re pulled too hard :D 
> 
> Annnnnddddd... there we are! Day 2, done, and with only mild casualties! I feel kinda bad because so far, I feel like these snippets aren’t close enough to the prompts to count, but whatever, it was fun to write.


	3. Day 3: Playing With Knives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 3rd: Playing With Knives
> 
> Fandom: Youtube/Markiplier&Jacksepticeye Egos
> 
> So what if his signature weapon was a gun? Anti had so much fun with his knives that, really, it would be selfish to let him keep them all to himself.

The way Wilford saw it, it was only fair. So what if his signature weapon was a gun? Anti had so much fun with his knives that, really, it would be selfish to let him keep them all to himself.

The entire experience was surprisingly different from his with a gun. He was used to an ear-splitting bang, a terrified look, a scent of gunpowder, maybe a few gasps for breath, and then a thud as the victim fell to the ground, hands held protectively over the bleeding addition to their body. If he was feeling playful maybe he’d add a couple more shots to complete the picture. And if he felt relaxed? Maybe a few stabs from small switchblade he kept in his pocket.

But this was much, much, much different. This was a real knife, with a well-worn handle in his grip, a tempered metal blade that gleamed so prettily in the dim light. This was a petrified look, up close and personal, where he got to see all the details, to see their eyes change at that moment where the victim realized their impending death. It was power, as he held the other down, struggling in his grip. It was the squelch of pushing the blade into the warm body below him, and then the noise of pain as he pulled it back out. It was the splatter of warm blood that covered his arms, adding the entertaining challenge of keeping a tight grip on the knife. It was the added opportunity to make his prey even prettier, carving beautiful lines into their soft skin, watching as a beautiful bloom of red surged up and spilled, painting their skin in such a beautiful shade.

It was an interesting and entertaining difference, and one that he was exploring to the fullest today. Honestly, he couldn’t remember why he hadn’t done it sooner. He was having a wonderful time!

A low growl came from behind him, and he sighed as he let the now-limp body in his hands fall to the ground, hearing a crack as the masked face hit the concrete floor hard.

Oh, yeah. That was why.

“What is it now, you absolute spoilsport?” Wilford demanded, wiping the bloodied blade on his already-running shirt as he turned around to face the figure pinned to the wall.

He had spent so much time preparing for this meeting, the least the other could do was just be quiet for once and let him have his fun. But no, he just couldn't, could he? Wilford could barely hear the magician fellow screaming as he dropped the superhero’s dead body to the ground, the greasy green-haired glitch yelling at him too loudly to hear much anything else.

“Ỵ̴̉͒̽̃ọ̵͍̜̤͒̈́͛ǘ̵̢̮͋̓͜ͅ ̶̳̫̋̽̊͋ḱ̴͎̃̏i̸̯͌̀̋l̸̘̊̽l̵̪̹͔̄̆ͅě̸̠̗̀̀̅ḏ̵̂͑̚ ̵̻̄t̸̨͔̂h̸̤̐̈͂͘e̴͎̜̬̊m̵̧͇̼̗̂̈́̑͘,” Anti nearly screamed through gritted teeth, words gasping and halting as he fought them out. It appeared as though not even the blade stabbed through his throat, stuck in the wall behind him, could stop his complaining. Though, Wilford guessed he might’ve expected as much. The demon had survived his entire existence with a slit throat, and that was enough of a sign as any that he didn’t suffer mortal wounds like the rest of his ego counterparts had.

“Awww, watch yourself, laddie, you’re starting to sound like you might care about them!” Wilford replied with a cheeky grin, spinning the knife between his fingers before placing it back in the box all of his options were stored in. Really, for all the protectiveness the glitch had for his weapons, they had been surprisingly easy to borrow. Along with the owner, and the rest of his friends.

“Y̷͚͆ẻ̵̤s̶̮̋,̸̧̿ ̸̱͋ḯ̷̻n̷̜̆ ̶̱̑f̶̼̿ǎ̷͎c̸͙̃t̶̤͛,̴͓̉ ̶͈̃Ì̵̩ ̸̻͝d̶̡̈ò̸͕ ̴̓ͅc̷͕̀a̷̤̚r̵̝̒ẽ̵̗ ̷̬̚t̴̩̑h̸̜̑ạ̸̐t̸̢́ ̶̘̌y̸̟͊o̵̮̾u̵̼͒ ̵͔̀k̸̠̈́ǐ̶̻l̸͙̃l̴̫͝i̷̟̿ed ̵̟̓m̴̫̉ý̴̟ ̸͓́p̸̪̕r̴̬̓ê̴̟y̶̆ͅ!” Anti burst out, figure glitching uncontrollable in anger, though the knives pinning his limbs to the wall seemed to prevent his body from going too far.

Waving a hand dismissively, Wilford dug around deeper in the box. “You were taking too long with them. I just finished the job.” Finding a couple knives that he hadn’t tried out- a thin silver Rampuri knife and a jagged black one barely the length of his pinkie finger- he set them aside for later. “And I must say, you have the most impressive repertoire. The dagger was most definitely my favorite, however. So sharp, and it made such a pretty pattern on the old doctor’s skin. I can see why you use it so often.”

The other’s figure was glitching even more out of control, bleeding hands pulling at his hair and throat for split seconds before they were pulled back to their place under a blade against the wall.

“But now that my practice is out of the way, I can start on the real stuff,” he said with a chorkle, picking up the Rampuri he had set aside. And in a blink, he found himself at the other’s side, admiring his handiwork already printed over the other’s skin.

“The other’s were enjoyable while they lasted, but you…” Wilford traced the edge of the demon’s face with the dagger, feeling a jolt of excitement as the thinnest line of blood rose to the surface of the deathly pale skin. “You, my dear, are something else entirely.”

The other tried to say something, but his body just glitched out of control again, leaving him choking as a trail of blood spilled from the corners of his mouth. Looks like that dagger to the throat was starting to affect him. “I mean, the bloke with the mustache only lasted two stabs. Even the hero couldn’t take more than ten. But _you_ aren’t going to leave me so easily, are you? You’re different, you’re _special_ , and a few love pokes aren’t going to kill you.

And then the blade was buried in the other’s stomach, Wilford grunting a little as he pulled down on the handle, leaving a disgustingly beautiful gash in its wake. He felt the other’s body arch under him in pain, but he waiting another few seconds before pulling the blade out.

“Oh, _yes_ ,” he almost purred, absentmindedly toying with the gashed skin with the tip of the blood-coated blade.

“I’m going to have some real fun playing with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And boom, day 3, done! This one was probably the easiest to come up with and write, for obvious reasons. Thank goodness Mark and Jack have so many insane egos that would enjoy playing around with knives xD


	4. Day 4: Horns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 4th- Horns
> 
> Fandom: Sanders Sides
> 
>  
> 
> _Virgil secretly loved the horns. He could look at the beautiful mix of purple and black for hours on end and never get bored._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this was supposed to be, like, two paragraphs, and then it turned into five messily-written pages.... so... whoops?

Virgil knew the other Sides just assumed that when Thomas suffered an anxiety attack, he, being the literal embodiment of the man’s anxiety, was suffering the attack right alongside him.

But they were so, so very wrong about that. Yes, he suffered, but it wasn’t as a result of going _through_ the anxiety attack.

He suffered because he _was_ the Anxiety attack.

The symptoms started out small. A general uneasiness, mind stomach nausea, and overall skittishness. But that was nearly every day for Virgil, so it was hard to figure out whether he was just being normal, or if there was an impending attack building inside him, the worry of which usually making him even more anxious, throwing him into an endless cycle of wondering if he was overreacting or if this was a serious concern.

But once the bigger symptoms hit, that was when he knew. The taste of blood as razor sharp teeth grew and punctured his tongue no matter how careful he was, the pressure on his back that burst outwards in the form of spindly, black and purple, bat-like wings, the fire that seemed to be stoked under his skin, leaving him scratching at his arms in an attempt to rid himself of the internal burning..

And, worst of all, the pressure in his skull, pushing outwards in a desperate attempt to escape, leaving him crumpled on the floor in pain with nothing more than the desire to either slip into a coma or die.

But he didn’t have time to wallow in a pitiful lump on the floor. By the time the pressure building in his skull had reached a debilitating point, Virgil knew that he had to act quickly. He had to work through the pain, he had to get the chains from under his bed even if he was only able to feebly crawl to get there, he had to snap the tight cuffs around his wrists and ankles, to check that the other ends were still firmly welded to the wall behind his bed, he had to find the key hidden under his mattress and make sure the restraints were locked tight...

By then, the pressure would’ve become overpowering, blurring his vision as his shaking hands locked the last of the chains. And, always without fail, just before it got too much, Remy would show up.

Virgil still wasn’t sure how the figment knew when he was needed in this situation (honestly, he probably should’ve questioned it the first time the other had popped up with the solution to his problem instead of just blindly accepting the offer), but at that point, he would be in too much pain to care. As long as it wasn’t any of the other sides that found him like this, he would’ve accepted the necessary help from anyone. Thomas could survive without Sleep for a few days. But if Anxiety managed to hurt or kill one of the main Sides?

Virgil shuddered at the thought. He had been told how bad Thomas had been when he had ducked out, and that had been for less than a day. He couldn’t imagine the man trying to function without one of the other three in the days, or even weeks it might take for them to reform as a fully functioning aspect once more.

“...’S going t’be a bad one,” the anxious side mumbled, checking the locks on his wrists one last time before tossing the key to Sleep. “Give me at least two days before you come back, alright?”

The other gave an offhanded nod to show that he had heard, tucking the key into his leather jacket before taking a sip from the Starbucks cup in his hand. Flicking off the main lights, Virgil sighing in relief as his over-sensitive eyes nearly cried out in relief at the reprieve, Remy leaned against the back of the door. “I gotchu, gurl. You look like a wreck already, so I’m just gonna assume that he’s close and go convince Thomas to sleep so he’s unconscious for the most of it, alright honey? The princely cutie can handle the nightmares.”

Even through the pain, Virgil managed a smirk. “Oh, so _now_ you’re going to finally do your job?”

The other gave him a patronizing stare over the top of his sunglasses before taking another sip of his drink. “Sweetheart, I always do my job.” Seeing the other’s eye roll, he added on a concession, “... Even if sometimes I’m a tad too late. Or early. Not like it really matters. Thomas just lo _ooooo_ ves me, no matter what I do.”

“Oh whatever, just get out of here before I accidentally tear your face off or something,” Virgil said, waving a hand dismissively at the other.

Flicking his aviator glasses to rest on top of his head, Remy just smirked. “Aw, that’s just precious. You think you could take me down, darling?”

Virgil just hissed at the other, baring his now-sharp teeth and letting the splindly wings pressed against his back fan out forbiddingly.

He almost felt guilty at the flash of fear that passed through the other's eyes.

Almost.

Flashing a middle finger at the other with a sarcastic “Love you, too, precious,” the figment slammed the door behind him, leaving Virgil to finally let himself collapse to the floor. He began to massage his temples at the pressure spiked, just like it always did once the other left. Each time progressed like clockwork, only changing slightly depending on how strong the attack was going to be.

The pressure built and built until it left Virgil lying on the ground, unable to move because of the pain, leaving him to only wish for the sweet release of death, until...

Just when it seemed like his head was going to burst, they would appear.

The horns.

Shimmering, dark horns sprouting out of his mop of dark hair, elegantly curving into razor-sharp points at the ends.

He kept the mirror on the wall in front of him so he could gauge his situation, see how long he had until his eyes turned black enough to match his eyeshadow, his skin turning paper-white, and Anxiety finally took over. But in the lull of time where he was still conscious as Virgil, his eyes would flicker to the horns atop his head, and then would remain there until the inner darkness forced its way out.

It was stupid, and he knew it. But every time this happened, even as he lay on the floor, trussed up in chains and wanting to beat his skull in to relieve the pressure still remaining within it, he couldn’t help but admire the glistening of the dim light of his room on the glossy additions.

They shimmered in a nebulous hue, looking like an ever-changing galaxy of deep blues, dark purples, and more shades of black that Virgil thought even existed. They never looked the same way for more than a second, changing colors and values in a subtle but continuous cycle. Secretly, the anxious side thought that they were beautiful, and sometimes even wished that he could have them as Virgil, and not just in the preparation and the aftermath of Anxiety. It was a cruel irony, that the mark of something so terrible could be so beautiful.

He could watch them for hours.

He _had_ watched them for hours. In a mental and physical state where even listening to his music was too much for him, lying quietly in the dark watching the changing colors was all he had the energy to do.

So there he lay, mesmerized by light glinting off of the extra additions to his head until he got too weak to hold him back. And then he could give into Anxiety, let him take control for a bit until he wore himself out and Virgil could take over again.

Or at least, that’s what was supposed to happen.

He wasn’t supposed to hear a knock at the door.

“Rise and shine, kiddo!” a cheery voice chirped from the other side of the door, and Virgil felt his stomach drop.

No, _no_ , this wasn’t supposed to happen. He had been left alone for months on end before he had been accepted as a part of the family, and even once he had been accepted, the others knew that he needed his space and never checked up on him unless it had been at least a week.

But here he lay, barely two days into his isolation, and Patton was, being the too-kind Side that he was, already checking in on him.

(Even in this troublesome situation, he couldn’t find it in him to curse the other for his kindness and near over-protectiveness. He deserved better than that.)

“Good morning! Or… uh, I guess it’s afternoon, now, huh? Which is why I came up, actually! I wanted to let you have your sleep and whatnot, ‘cause you’ve been in your room for a couple of days, so I don’t think you’ve been having the best days. But Lo said this morning that enough was enough, and we needed to make sure that you were up so that you didn’t ruin your sleep schedule or something. I convinced him to wait until afternoon, but…” There was a moment of silence, and then Patton laughed. “Sorry, I was rambling again, wasn’t I? And I still don’t even know if you’re awake…”

“I’m…” He coughed, clearing his throat, before continuing. “...I’m awake, Pat.” Virgil winced at how raspy his voice sounded, but the man on the other side of the door didn’t seem to be put off by it.

“There he is! Gosh, it’s been too long since I’ve heard your voice, kiddo! Mind if I come in? We don’t have to talk or anything if today isn’t a good day. I just want to make sure you’re doing alright.”

“Patton, now’s not r-really a g… a g-good time- _ahhh_ ,” Virgil hissed in pain at the sudden wave of burning warmth inside him. No, nonono, not now, this was not good.

“Virgil, are you okay?” He could hear the other trying to keep his voice calm, but it was hard to miss the underlying tone of fear and concern bleeding through his words.

“Y-Yeah, Pat, r’l _ly_ , ‘m **fINe** -” He jerked in on himself at the sudden jolt of pain that stabbed through him, slapping a hand over his mouth as he internally cursing the timing of this. His ‘demonic voice,’ as Roman called it (Virgil could never let him know how apt that name really was), had starting to act up. All Patton knew was that his voice changed when he was feeling extra anxious, like it had while he was in Patton’s room, or when Thomas had stayed in his own room for too long. He never stayed around long enough to let the other see what followed the voice, and today especially shouldn’t be any different. Today, Anxiety was stronger that usual, and was struggling even more to get out. If his voice was already breaking through, Virgil had no more than a few minutes left before he lost all control.

“Kiddo, we’ve talked about this. You don’t have to go through these things alone…”

Taking a deep breath, Virgil tried to steady his voice enough to answer. “Patton, re _all_ y, I’m ok **AY** , I just **_nEE_** d s _ome time_ to m **yseLf rig** ht now.” He reached up to massage his temples again to try and do something, anything, to stop the pain in his mind.

And then there was an earsplitting crash, and the shatter of glass hitting the ground.

Virgil's head whipped around, instantly regretting the sudden movement as he had to choke back the urge to vomit.

There on the ground behind him, next to his bed, laid the shattered remains of a mug, the remains of the coffee inside it splattered in an uneven circle around it. A closer look revealed that the chains had somehow gotten looped around the leg of his night table, and the sudden movement to massage his forehead had jerked the furniture to the side, toppling the mug over and onto the floor.

"Virgil, what was that?"

"N-Noth **ING** , ju **St d _R_** _oppE **D a**_ **muG** ," Virgil quickly called back. Another wave of nausea washed over him, making his entire body shudder at the sound.

He didn't realize that he had audibly whimpered until he heard a panicked voice from the other side of the door. "Verge, Virgil, are you alright?" Virgil couldn't bring himself to answer, vision swimming and shots of burning pain making their way through his body. "I'm sorry about this kiddo, I really am, but I need to come in."

The wave of nausia subsided slightly, and Virgil managed to squeak out a quiet, "Y..yo _u c'n't,_ door's _locked_ , 's **fINe**..." before his body shuttered with another burst of pain.

And then the knob was turning, and Virgil became aware of a small, insignificant fact that he hadn’t noticed before.

Remy had forgotten to lock the door when he had left.

Virgil leaped forward at that, trying to get to the door before Patton could enter, but he was only jerked back by the chains attached to his wrists. Growling, he surged forward again, and again, trying desperately to get just a little farther, just another foot or so, and then…

And then the door was opening, and a familiar cardigan-clad figure tentatively took a step inside.

No. No, no, no, nononono, he couldn’t be here. Not now, not when he was too weak, not when he was a danger to everyone. Virgil felt hot tears prick at the corners of his eyes as his legs gave out, letting himself crumple to the floor as he realized there was nothing else he could do. He curled in on himself, eyes shut tight, fingers finding their way up to tightly grip his hair as he rocked back and forth slightly, trying to alleviate the burning pain inside him that was desperately trying to force its way out.

“Virge? Are you…” And then Patton’s voice died off as his eyes fell on Virgil’s figure.

There was a moment of heavy silence, and then the moral side spoke again, voice low and trembling with anger. “Who did this to you?” Virgil stiffened at those words, a jolt of fear going through his spine at the blatant murderous tone.

And then he was sobbing, curling even tighter in on himself. “I’m _… I… ‘m **sO s’rRy**_ Pat, I c’ **DN’** t… ‘m n **Ot sTRO** ng e ** _n’g_** H…”

And just as suddenly as his demeanor had switched to angry, Patton’s voice was now concerned. “Oh, no, kiddo I’m not mad at you, never, I’m so sorry.” And then his hands were lightly being grabbed, being sure to not touch the cuffs, and pulled away from where they had been tugging at his hair. “I’m… I’m just mad at whoever… whoever thought they could…” Virgil’s eyes fluttered back open to see Patton kneeling in front of him, struggling to keep his breathing even. Already, a light dusting of black eyeshadow covered his freckles. Taking another deep breath, Patton forced his voice to stay calm. “I just… not… not at you, kiddo. I just… ” His eyes roamed Virgil’s figure, taking in the even-more-thickly-than-usual applied eyeshadow, the wings tightly pressed against his back, the clean, but well-used chains connecting him to the wall. And last of all, the twisting horns sprouting from his hair which seemed to hold his gaze for a second longer than necessary before he quickly tore his eyes away to turn his attention back to his friend. “What.. what did they do to you? How long have you been…” His eyes widened, and he lurched forward slightly as if physically sick. “Oh my goodness, have you been like this all week? We didn’t help you. Virge, we didn’t come help you, they chained you up, h… h-h-hurt, they hurt you, did they hurt you? And we didn’t, we didn’t… oh my goodness Virgil…”

He wasn’t going to be able to hold him back for much longer. Virgil could feel his eyes burning, and he knew it wasn’t the tears this time. “N _..N-No, it w **Asn’T… I… I d** -diD... Pat **TOn** , you nEE **d to G** o nOw, **hE’s goiNG tO hurT y-** ”_

But before he could even finish, the anxious side was wrapped in a warm, tight embrace, one hand gently cupping the back of his neck and pressing his face into the other's shoulder, leaving him vainly trying to push himself away.

“I’m not going to leave you, Virgil,” he said quietly. “I gotcha now, alright? Nobody’s going to hurt you anymore. Logan can get you out of these, and then Roman and I will keep you safe, okay?” And for a moment, Virgil’s body took over, sinking into the warm embrace, closing his eyes and just letting the feeling of warmth, safety, comfort, home wash over him. But then his mind kicked back online, reminding him of the deadline he was facing.

He tried once again to push himself away, but this attempt was even weaker than the last. “N _-N-No, Patton, y **ou neEd to l-l-liste** n to me, you **ne** eD to go, nOw **paT, riGHt noW it’s noT SafE-”**_

“Shh… it’s going to be okay,” Patton’s voice whispered to him gently, fingers carding through his hair in a soothing, repetitive gesture. “I’ve got you.”

“But now _he’s_ got _you_ ,” was the one thought running through Virgil’s mind, and once more he tried to get out of the other’s hold.

He fought to stay in control, more so than he ever had before. But before was different. Before was inevitable, where he knew that his darkness would come out no matter what. Now, it mattered when it came out. Thomas was at stake. _Patton_ was at stake.

But the fatherly figment didn’t seem to understand, because Virgil could still feel the comforting warmth surrounding him, as if trying to keep him safe from the world when the world needed to be kept safe from him. He tried to push the other away one last time, but he was too weak, and the pressure in his mind was too much, and his eyelids were so heavy…

_**“P… PAt pleAse… rUn…”** _

…

…

…

...

And then his eyes were shooting back open, a cry for his friend still stuck in his throat. He was lying on the ground almost directly in front of the mirror, now, nose an inch away from the surface as he staring blankly at his reflection. His vision was still spotted and blurry, but he could vaguely feel the familiar grip of iron around his wrists and ankles. For a moment, he himself hope. The chains had held. He hadn’t left his room.

Maybe… just maybe…

And then his vision snapped back to clear, leaving Virgil lying on the floor, limbs too heavy and body too tired to do anything but stare into the mirror, eyes locked in now fixated horror on the glistening demonic additions that he loved watching so much.

His beautiful, purple and black horns, now complemented with dark, dripping swirls of red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andddddd.... there's day 4 done! :D


	5. Day 5: Hey Batter Batter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 5th- Hey Batter Batter
> 
> Fandom: Youtube/Markiplier Egos
> 
>  _"...The Host now realizes that there’s a much simpler way to both relieve his anger at his work being ruined, and to both figuratively and literally get Mr. Trimmer out of his ‘ballpark,’ so to speak."_.

“The seethingly mad Host walks up to the infamous showrunner, Bim Trimmer, holding a sheaf of papers that have rather large and untidy scribbles covering most of the surfaces. Slamming the papers down onto the desk in front of him, The Host demands that the well-dressed man in front of him tell him why The Host found this particular stack of papers in his office.”

Not even blinking as a thick packet of pages slams down in front of him, Bim looks up with an annoyed expression. “Now, Hostie, you know I love your confusing, out-of-the-blue ramblings as much as anyone, but what is it now? I’m working on some ideas for my next show.”

The man growled, ignoring answering Bim’s question to instead continue muttering narrations to himself. “The Host senses the writings on the papers held in the showrunner's hand, and his anger rises. How dare he, this insolent man, take the very important manuscripts from The Host’s room and defile them like this.”

Bim nervously scooted his chair back an inch, hearing his acquaintance’s voice shaking with unbridled anger. When The Host was narrating, he never let emotion spill into his voice, keeping a calm and steady voice to properly complete the whole ‘narrator’ schtick. But now, his hands were shaking, his mouth set in a stiff line, and if he still had eyes, Bim was sure that he’d be getting a death glare worse than when he had stolen one of Dark’s suits for fashion purposes.

“These are manuscripts?” In genuine confusion (and in a genuine effort to distract and somehow weasel his way out of this already precarious situation), Bim flipped through the sheaf of papers in his hands, finally seeming to read the looping cursive that he had been writing over in a thick sharpie scrawl. “Why do you have an entire wall of your room dedicated to manuscripts? I didn’t think you were the hoarding type.”

“The Host grits his teeth, then calmly tries to explain that the purposes of having said manuscripts in his room is of no importance to the showrunner, and that ignorance as to what he stole from his room still wasn’t an excuse for the act of stealing anything from his room.”

“It wasn’t like I had any choice, alright? I needed some paper to scrawl down some ideas on, there wasn’t any in my desk, I go to find you because you probably had some, and then I see this huge bookcase crammed full of old paper!”

“The Host sarcastically remarks that, upon seeing this wall full of old, used, and most likely important paper, the obvious conclusion was for Bim to take some without asking to use for his nonsensical ramblings," the other spat venomously.

“Exactly!” Bim agreed excitedly. The Host already understood where he was coming from; this was perfect! “So, of course, I’m thinking, ‘Oh, The Host wouldn’t mind if I used some of his recycled paper for a few outlines.’ I took some and left, and that’s the whole story. So, as you can clearly see-”

“The Host interjects to ask the stupid moron before him why he did not perhaps look for some paper in the ego’s main office space, where there is figuratively an unlimited supply of office supplies.”

“Have you actually walked to office area? It would take, like, 2 minutes to get there and back. Besides, what are these old things to you?”

“They are _The Host’s_ manuscripts!” the man burst out, angrily wiping away a fresh trail of blood that made its way down his cheek.

Bim blinked in surprise, and then shot the other his trademark grin. “Oh, I didn’t know you used to be an author!”

“The Host used to be _The_ Author!” the man all but screamed in anger, slamming his fists onto the desk and leaving the other to jerk backward in a slight panic, suddenly wishing there was more than just a flimsy desk between the two. “And The Host now wishes, for not the first time in his life, that he could be as he once was again, if only to subject this miserable creature before him to one of his many long and agonizing torture scenes that he used to be so talented at describing!”

“Look, my normally non-aggressive narrator pal, you know that you can’t do anything to me. Only Dark can give out the punishments… well, and Wilford, but that’s only because nobody can stop him. So…” He shrugged nonchalantly, looking down to avoid the murderous expression of the other. “I mean, it’s kinda out of your ballpark at this point, isn’t it? I said I was sorry, you can just write some more stories, and then we’ll move on from this, alright?”

The other’s expression turned from murderous to downright demonic. “The Host cannot merely just ‘ _write some more_ -’...” Trailing off in his narration, sending shivers down Bim’s spine because The Host never left a sentence hanging in the air like that, his eyes flit back up the face of the narrator. There’s a moment of awkward silence, Bim shifting uncomfortably as The Host appears to look directly at him, even through the bloody blindfold obscuring his empty eye sockets.

“...The Host appreciates the use of the idiom in the idiotic Mr. Trimmer’s words, and suddenly finds that the whole situation has been put into a new perspective…”

Bim just smiles his usual ‘show host’ smile, trying to calm his now racing heart as it seemed that he wouldn’t be getting murdered today after all. “Well, glad I could help ya out… wait did you say idiotic-”

“...The Host now realizes that there’s a much simpler way to both relieve his anger at his work being ruined, and to both figuratively and literally get Mr. Trimmer out of his ‘ _ballpark_ ,’ so to speak. Holding a hand out to the side, The Host lets a smile grace his lips as he feels the weight of a familiar handle form in his grip.”

“That’s….” Bim’s voice cracked, but he quickly cleared his throat and continued. “That’s a nice-looking baseball bat you’ve got there, Hostie…” There was a creak of the floorboards, and The Host let a wider grin take over his face, mouth filling with a coppery taste as the blood spilling from his eyes tricked its way into his now open mouth.  
  
“The Host isn’t stupid, and even though he may be physically blind, he can still tell when the imbecile showrunner is trying to discreetly leave the room. But, suddenly, Bim Trimmer is inexplicably unable to move, hand just inches away from the well-worn brass doorknob that would lead to his freedom.”

There was a small squeak as the show host was suddenly rendered immobile, and he felt his stomach drop as he heard slow and deliberate footsteps make their way behind him.

“The Host slowly makes his way behind Bim Trimmer, smiling fully now as he savors this moment. After all, Darkiplier has always had a soft spot for The Host, and might be willing to turn a blind eye if no lives are taken, and if the logorrheic show host is put in his place. Consoled by this thought, he draws an old weapon back in a slow and even motion, and falls into a proper batting stance…”

“Host, you don’t… you don’t have to do th-”

There was a loud crack, and Bim was on the floor, head burning and ears ringing before he could even hear the narration dictating the movement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey batter batter, _swing_
> 
> And there's Day 5! Never written The Host before... or Bim Trimmer for that matter, but this was surprisingly fun to write!


	6. Day 6: Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 6th- Drowning
> 
> Fandom: Sanders Sides
> 
> _"What exactly is at the bottom of the ocean?"_

Logan couldn’t really fault anyone else but himself. He had practically given an invitation, one that the nightmares that plagued the mindscape would have too much pleasure accepting and enacting.

“ _Biggest fear?”_ he had asked tentatively ( _stupidly_ , he thought now) to the group in their debut video. 

“ _Spiders_ ,” was Patton’s nervous answer.

With enough Extra™ theatrics to make the Logical Side roll his eyes, Roman had added his own. “ _Rejection_!”

And then all eyes had turned onto him, leaving him to quickly answer his own question before Thomas wisely decided to move onto a different topic.

But he should’ve known better than to make his fears known, to allow the nightmares an opportunity to get this control over him.

Because now the dark creatures knew exactly how to break him.

“ _What exactly is at the bottom of the ocean?_ ”

Logan.

Logan is at the bottom of the ocean, light from the surface far above him, rays weakly fighting its way into the depth leaving him in semi-darkness, surrounded by water, with a crushing pressure on his lungs as dark shapes ghosted the shadows around him.

Before one of Thomas’s first trips to the ocean without his family, Virgil had kicked everyone into overdrive to learn precautionary procedures for any accident that could happen beforehand, on the way, and at the beach. That had lead to more than one sleepless night memorizing resuscitation skills, how to read the ocean, looking at currents, and of course, how to avoid drowning. Logan could list the cautionary steps easily. Know your limits, use the buddy system, always carry a flotation device on you when venturing into a deep body of water, avoid currents, and only go out as far as you know you are able to.

Unfortunately, he was past the point of avoiding drowning at this point. He _was_ drowning.

Logically, he knew what he needed to do. He needed to resist any unnecessary movement, which would just eat up the very necessary oxygen keeping him conscious. He needed to spread out his limbs to allow himself a chance to float to the surface. And, most importantly of all, he needed to not panic.

 _Logically_ , he knew that.

Which was why he couldn’t understand why his body was thrashing around, trying to desperately make his way to the surface. His mind was fighting itself: a calm and emotionless voice reciting drowning procedures while a wild, more emotional voice was screaming of fear, death, suffocation, self-preservation, need to get _out, out up, up, air-_

He couldn’t understand why his chest suddenly heaved, lungs burning, lips parting to inhale air when he knew if he could just hold off a moment longer…

And then cold, salty water forced its way into his mouth, down his now-burning throat, even as hands reached up to staunch the flow that his mouth couldn’t seem to clamp down on. He could feel it inside him now, an icy slosh of burning liquid filling his lungs, forcing its way into every available space inside his body. And oh, this was even worse than the burning lungs he had experienced before inhaling. Now his lungs were burning and freezing at the same time, feeling as though they might crack under the cold even as Logan scratched at his chest frantically, trying to relieve the pressure. He felt his fingernails tear away at his polo, and then digging into his skin, doing little to help the pain killing him from the inside. Strength was leaving his limbs now, but still he continued to claw at his lungs until his arms were numb and he wasn’t sure if they were even moving. Dark red clouds billowed from his chest into the dark water around him, adding a small splash of color to his surroundings. Black spots were invading his vision now, making his vision swim.

Logan cracked a smile at that, even as his eyes fluttered closed. Swim…his vision was swimming... and he was in the ocean. An unintentional play on words.

Patton probably would’ve liked that one. Maybe he should tell him it later.

A numbing coldness pushed its way past lungs and through his body until he felt entirely disconnected.

One last moment of excruciating, frozen pain...

...

And then it was over.

Logan jerked up with a gasp, hands reaching up to frantically grasp at his throat. His bedsheets had become twisted around him in his tossing, and he tried to loosen them with shaking hands so he could breathe freely. But they were wrapped too tight, one side pinned under his body, and he couldn’t pull it away from his neck, he couldn’t breathe, his vision was blurred with tears this time, and…

And then, warm hands were loosening the fabric wrapped around his neck, helping him from the tangle he found himself in. “Lo… It’s okay… you’re awake now, it was just a nightmare…” At the voice, Logan felt a sob of relief rise up his throat as he let himself relax back onto the bed. And soon as he had been fully untangled, he found himself wrapped up in a loose, comforting hug. Safe. Warm.

 _Patton_.

“You wanna talk about it, Sherlock? Or you want me to deduce it on my own?” Logan cracked a smile at that, still keeping his face buried in the other’s chest.

It took a few tried, a couple starts and stops with his breathing, but he finally was able to string together a coherent sentence. “I… I seemed to find myself drowning.” And that was all he seems to need to say for the other’s grip around him to tighten, hands protectively splayed over his back pulling him closer.

And then he felt a small drop of water land in his hair.

He almost jerked up at that, worried that he would open his eyes to find himself back in the watery dreamscape. But then he realized the source of the water.

Patton was crying.

He was crying, and…

...

He was crying too much.

Waves of salty water poured onto the floor, greedily devouring the hardwood floor and lapping at the walls.

Patton’s expression twisted in pain and terror, and his hands went to try and stop the too-heavy flow of water. “L...L-Lo, I…” He tried to say something, but the water from his tears kept filling his mouth, leaving him choking and gasping on Logan’s bed. And then his mouth was spewing water, too, soaking the bed sheets, spilling onto the floor and joining the water level that was already too high.

Logan’s breath stuttered once, and then he was hyperventilating, eyes shut tight as he curled in on himself, trying to ignore the moral side pleadingly reaching for him, the scent of salt invading his nose and burning his eyes, the water now as high as his mattress….

Of course, the nightmare wouldn’t let him go so easily. Logan had reacted, one of the worst things one could do when at the mercy at one of the dark beasts. And even worse, he, like an idiot, had let Patton pass through his mind, just giving the nightmares more idea fuel for the next round. The water climbed higher and higher, covering his bed, covering his desk, covering the whimpering side now pleadingly grabbing at Logan’s hands, asking him to make the pain stop between choking fits.

He tried to make it end beforehand, give the nightmares less power by prematurely ending the dream, but his body wouldn’t let him do it. Whenever he tried to suck in water, his lungs refused to do it. And when that failed, he tried to just hold himself under the water until he was forced to breathe in, only to be pushed back to the ever-shrinking surface to cough out red-tinted water from his abused throat.

It was only once the water level reached the ceiling that he was forced to let the water back into his lungs with no way to escape.

Only to jerk back up into a brighter room, cradled in someone else’s strong arms. “Never fear, specs. I have vanquished this beast that had caught you in its clutches,” a normally boisterous voice whispered calmly to him. But he could feel the dampness seeping up from under his fingertips and refused to open his eyes.

“Nerd, please, you have to look at me.”

Logan just kept his eyes closed until the water entered his burning lungs again.

...only to jerk up up once again, this time to a tentative touch and a low, raspy voice as a hoodie was placed around his shivering shoulders. “Logan, you’re going to be okay.”

And again.

Salty liquid rushing down his throat.

And again.

“Logic… Logan, buddy, I promise you’re safe.”

And _again_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnnd... there's day 6! I feel really weird accidentally writing semi-long thingies for this, so this'll probably be the last long-ish one... except for maybe the 27th, because boy do I have plans for our previously green-haired bean in 'Revenge.'


	7. Day 7: Transformation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 7th- Transformation
> 
> Fandom: Youtube/Markiplier Egos
> 
> It would be selfish of him to leave them so imperfect if he could do something about it.

_ met·a·mor·pho·sis _

_ /medəˈmôrfəsəs/ _

_ noun _

_ (in an insect or amphibian) the process of transformation from an immature form to an adult form in two or more distinct stages _

 

... Maybe…

It was a shift from something simple to something beautiful. Neither was more important than the other; both played equally crucial parts to help the environment. You couldn’t have the caterpillar without the butterfly, nor the butterfly without the caterpillar. The later form of the organism’s life was just… better. More beautiful. Less constrained.

...But it wasn’t an exact fit. This wasn't changing from an 'immature' form to an 'adult' form. This was changing from broken to perfect. Maybe a close synonym, but not quite the word he was looking for.

 

_ trans·for·ma·tion _

_ /tran(t)sfərˈmāSH(ə)n/ _

_ noun _

_ a thorough or dramatic change in form or appearance. _   


That was a better fit, he conceded. _Transformation_. A more simplified definition of what he felt he was doing, but one that fit nonetheless. He was changing them, both in form and appearance. But not only that, he was making them better.

Google nodded to himself as he finally found the word to describe what he was doing, and then turned back to his work.

And even though he knew that what he was doing was right, that transforming them in this way merely made them better, and that he was a robot and that robots could not emote, he couldn’t help but feel a squeeze in his chest as he looked down into the King of the Squirrel’s terrified eyes. Perhaps it was a wire misfiring? Google made himself a quick note to check out his interior workings at a later date, and then picked up one of the tools in his hand.

“King,” he started formally, noticing the other’s eyes flickering skittishly from the clamps in his hand to his face. “I know that we haven't always had the closest relationship."

That was true; while the two hadn't had any major disagreements, they hadn't exactly become the best of friends. The squirrellish leader was always skittish around the robot, and Google didn't feel the need to try and initiate any unwanted conversation. Really, for the way he had avidly avoided, King should be thanking him for even giving him this chance. And for all Google knew, that was what the other was trying to tell him through the gag (False: he did know what was trying to be said, but King was still imperfect, so he had to let this mistake pass).

"However," he continued, setting the clamps to the side and instead of taking a scalpel in his hand. "I find that, despite our past interactions, or lack thereof, there is a place in my database for you. I merely want to help you, as I have already helped the others.”

The other had undoubtedly seen the newer versions of the Iplier egos lining the walls, standing stiffly as if ready to be commanded. As they should. Some of them were still messier than others, blood and tissue clashing horribly with metallic counterparts, wires breaking through the surface of skin, hastily stitched up areas that would later be smoothed or covered. And each still had little things that still were reminiscent of their imperfect selves before their transformations, things that he would later need to get rid of. A blue and red aura still vaguely flickered in and out of existence around one. The one to the left of him hadn't been stripped of his lab coat yet. And Google still hadn't gotten around to replacing the left eye of the figure to the right, leaving a loose blindfold halfhazardly hanging over the remaining, bleeding socket. But each had a precise letter carved into their chests. Each stared forward with a blank expression, just waiting to be told what to do by him. 

They were all like him.

He was perfect.

Therefore, he had now made _them_ perfect.

There was a small noise from beneath him, and Google once again was brought back to the present.

Oh, yes. He had made _almost_ all of them perfect.

Taking the scalpel, he made the first incision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _o o f_ , kinda rushed, but here we go. Day 7, done!


	8. Day 8: Oh So Many Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 8th- Oh So Many Eyes
> 
> Fandom: YouTube RPF/Jacksepticeye Egos

He had just stepped into his room after a long night of editing, eyes too tired to process much around him. Slipping out of his shirt, too tired to get into proper pyjamas, he carefully crawled under the covers, being sure not to wake the other already sleeping there. Hand reaching out to comfortingly brush against Signe’s arm, frazzled mind having to make sure she was really there so that he could go to sleep without any nervous thoughts about her wellbeing, he turned over to face his side of the bed.

 

His eyes flickered to the clock, the quiet glow of the LED numbers burning his sensitive eyes.

 

4:49 AM.

 

He internally winced at that, knowing that he had to get up early tomorrow to meet with some people to discuss tour stuff. At this point, he’d only be getting 4 hours of sleep tonight, making 6 hours of sleep in the past 48 hours. Which was fine.

 

Sleep is for the weak.

 

“...I want to sleep for a week,” he sleepily mumbled before his eyes slid shut again, head falling against the mattress, making a slight squishing sound.

 

He frowned.

 

Why the everloving heck was his mattress making a ‘squishing’ sound?

 

It took a moment for him to lift his head, still being so tired that he had to wonder if the simple movement was really worth it, but his curiosity and concern with the fact that his pillow was unusually wet, won over. Head lifting slightly, hand scrabbling blindly over the covers and pillow in an effort to find the object that had made the squishing sound, Seán once again looked at the clock, the only light in the room. 4:51. He really needed to sleep.

 

His fingers finally closed around a slimy, slightly squishy orb, and he frowned. The first thing his frazzled mind thought of was an earring, and he almost woke up Signe before realizing that the orb was far too large to be any piece of his girlfriend's jewelry. And way too slimy.

 

Pulling it out from under his pillow, Seán held the object in his hand, trying to figure out what the heck it was. Eyes catching on the clock again (4:52, he really needed to just go to bed), he blinked a couple times as his tired mind finally connected the dots. The numbers glowed. Light. He could probably see the object better in the dim glow.

 

Holding the object close to the glowing red numbers on the LED alarm clock, Seán blinked tiredly at it.

 

And then he screamed.

 

The orb fell from his hand, hitting the floor with a sickening splatting sound. Bouncing a couple times, it skidded to a halt a few feet away from his bed, turning so that it was facing him.

 

It was looking at him.

 

Instantly, Seán was half out of bed, hand slamming down on the power switch of the lamp on his bedside table. There was no way he was seeing what he was seeing, and he was sure that if he just turned on the lights, he would see that he was mistaken and be able to close his eyes and sleep, to forget about this whole thing.

 

He regretted his actions the moment he flipped the light switch.

 

Because, not only was there an eyeball lying on the floor, familiar baby blue staring straight into his soul, but there were nearly identical pairs lying all across his room. Oh so many eyes, each the same color as his own, and each locked onto his figure. Two peeking out behind various objects on his bookshelf. One lazily swinging by an optical nerve from the lamp in the corner of his room. Another curled around the clock, another looking blankly at him from under the armchair in the corner. Like a horrific I-Spy game, the nearly identical orbs were scattered around his bedroom.

 

He tried to ignore the two before him. Greyish-blue, only a slightly different shade from the other orbs scattered around the room. But he had stared into those laughing eyes too often to not be able to tell the difference.

 

A quiet voice in the back of his mind laughed. Here he stood, the infamous Jacksepticeye, heart pounding and fighting the urge to puke at something he had seen so many times in his own logo.

 

He could vaguely see the owners of the orbs as well. The tattered edge of a labcoat peeking out from the shadows of his desk. An unmoving figure slumped over by the lamp, bejeweled mask crooked and dripping a dark red. A beam of light falling over a well-manicured hand and a suited wrist, gripping a familiar hat decorated with a skull wearing glasses.  The edge of a red-clothed limb sprawled out from under the bed, stained with darker blotches of the same color.

 

And then the figure in the bed beside him, light now falling onto her peacefully still figure. The messy brown hair partially falling into her face was not able to hide the two bleeding cavities where the grey-blue eyes he loved used to reside.

 

His breath caught in his throat, and he quickly looked away. No, this couldn't be happening. This was a nightmare, this was a dream, this was…

  
  


"O̷̧̦̞͎͓̱̺͙͗̈̑̏̓̅̆̒͢ͅh͍̺͚͕̳̳̄͐̀̔͋̀̓́͟͞͡,͚͓̠͔͓͆̉͗͐̔͟͝ ī̵̱̭͕̘̣̥̻̓̃̂̎̔͗̓͟t̵̨̧̨͔͓͎̗͊́͂͒̅̃̓'̷͚̳̹͇͈̩̗͔̓̈͑̊͐͌͜s̵̙̺͎̭͙̝̤̺̰͑̍̃̑̂̌̚͘͟ ṙ̡̧̩͈̥̜̟̙͚̥̒̓͌͌̑̓̍̊͆ē̛̹̠̦͓͖̣̈̀͗͆̐̀͛á̸̜̝̘͇͚́̉̅͒͞l̡̢͕͙͈̪̐̆̀̋͐͛̕ ą̧̩̟̬̻͈̖̩̝̀̆̍̄͗͋ḽ̥̝͕̮̩͎̲̏̒͒͒̈͗̒ļ̢̛̻̹̟̼̮̜̍͑̃̕͢͢͞͝ r̡̼̺͍̩̩̝͚̘̓̎̔̎́̆͝ì̶̤̙̜̹͉̯͋̎̒̓͘ǵ̵̣̱͖͙͙̗̆͌̌̍͂̚͡͝h̶̠͍̬͂͐͐̐͛̈̃̽͌̍͢͟t̬͉̘͇͍͚̜͔̽̋͐͗͛͟,̨̛̫͈̙̗̼̻̫̩̔̿̅̔̂̈́̚̕ͅ l͓̺̘̞̠̠̖̔̇͂̓̍̓̀̄͟i̬̼͖̝̲͔͓̬͆̓̈́̓͘t̩̰̗̯͍̠̂̈́̀͒̏͛͠͞t̶̨̮͎̭̜̼̎̑͒̒͗̀l̴̢̛̠̟͇̜̩̞͕̒̄͌̈́̐̒͒ẹ͖͙͎͔́̉̌̐̚͝ J͇͍̫̣̻̊̎̋̊̊̅̎͡ȃ̶̦͓̣͓͓̋́̾͘ḉ̮̙̼̻͇͎̔̑̈͂͐͘͘͝͞k̤̣̞̪̗͎̝̪͕͚͛͂͋̅̋̂͌i̮͙̙̣͎͖̦͕͓̓̈́͗̽̉͋̚e̬̳̰̻͎̣̪̰̦̥̿̔͆͋͝b̡̹͔̦̦̱̣̔͐̓̓́͋͜ỏ̼̜̹̭̖͊͆̀́̑́̆͆y̶̛̰̺͎̝͚̏͌̌͐̔̾̃͜͠."

.

 

He jolted at that, immediately going into a cold sweat, chest heaving for air as his lungs froze, hair standing on end, heart beating quicker than should've been healthy...

 

And then his eyes finally found their way to the wall, where a dripping red message scrawled across the wall in jagged letters.

 

“I’ve got my eyes on you.”

 

Seán swore he heard a glitchy laugh echo around his room before the lights flickered, then plunged his room into darkness, leaving him sitting on his bed, frozen in petrified fear.

 

He could still feel the lifeless gazes on him, even though he couldn’t see the eyes anymore.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part of me feels bad, because this was crappily written on my phone an hour before the ‘deadline’ of today’s prompt. But part of me is impressed that I managed to even turn out a coherent idea, so there ya go.


	9. Day 9: Infection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 9th- Infection
> 
> Fandom: Jacksepticeye Egos
> 
> It was spreading, and there was nothing Schneeplestein could do about it.

It had started on the first of that month. Henrik von Schneeplestein had woken up at 8 am, two hours later than he normally did. The first usual sign that he was sick.

He had begun to go through his routine, brush his teeth, wash his face, etc, when he noticed the green pus oozing from his eyes.

The first unusual sign that he was sick.

His first thought was an eye infection, but it was nothing like he had ever seen or treated before. He had gone out to talk to Marvin, to maybe see if maybe a spell had gone wrong in the night and the residue had somehow made its way back to his room again (it had happened enough times for it to be a legitimate concern), only to step out to see a nervous cluster of egos around a collapsed magician.

Marvin's eyes were also leaking that same green pus.

And so, Marvin had been ordered to bed ('Schneep, I swear, I feel fine' ' _You are not fine, you just collapsed')_ , and after questioning the magician and not receiving any cause for the strange symptoms, he had turned to his medical books.

Ironically, the infamous Antisepticeye was next to succumb to the mysterious eye infection. Five days after the signs had first manifested in Marvin, the green glitch had turned up in Schneeplestein’s office in a cold sweat, running a fever, blood not clotting in his neck and with that same green pus leaking from his eyes. Schneep had only taken a moment of interrogation to make sure that Anti was not responsible for this infection before his doctoral instincts took over, forcing the other to change into something more comfortable

And for a couple of days, it had just been Marvin and Anti on the special ‘sick couch’ in the living room. The magician was too out of it to seem bothered by the psychotic being huddled in blankets next to him. And, really, it had only taken a couple hours of seeing Anti on the couch, bandages wrapped around his neck, half-unconscious in a hazy fever-dream, dressed in sweatpants and wrapped in a septiceye-Sam blanket, for most of the fear of him staying in their house to dispel.

Schneeplestein figured that it was just a bug going around; that the fevers would break and that he could then gently ease the others back into everyday activities so that he could finally get some much-needed rest and overcome the sickness himself.

(He tried to push the green pus out of his mind and focus on the things he knew how to cure, if only to give him a false hope to keep on trying).

But two more days passed, and neither Marvin’s nor Anti’s fever broke. In fact, Marvin entered into an almost comatose state, barely moving and never fully conscious. His body would occasionally twitch, sparks falling from his fingertips, cards falling from his sleeves at random moments. Anti would fall into light fits of rest, jerking awake with his temperature jumping up almost impossibly fast. And, of course, the pus still leaking from both of their eyes posed a serious problem. In between rounds of checking on his sick patients, the doctor continued researching the odd symptom, trying in vain to find a name for the disease, and along with it, the cure.

And then Jameson had fallen ill.

They had found the suited man curled up on his floor, shivering in a cold sweat, eyes filling with the same mysterious liquid. He had been moved to Chase's room soon after, per the vlogger's request and to Schneeplestein's disproval.

Chase followed soon after, and even though being in such close quarters with the sickness certainly helped speed the process, Schneep was sure that was mostly due to over-working himself and lack of sleep while trying to care for Jameson.   
  
He had come to rely on Jackie even more than he usually did that week, the other helping him take care of the others so that he could have some time to try and find out a cure. He still needed to check up on the others, of course, make sure that they were as comfortable as they could be in their condition, make sure they were drinking enough water, etc. But, with the hero’s help, he was able to steal away for an hour or so every day to work on figuring out what kind of disease this was.

And then Jackie fell ill, leaving only the doctor to try and keep his family alive.

“Schneep,” Chase said hoarsely, weakly helping prop Jameson up so that the doctor could help get some fluids in him. “You don’t…” He fell into a coughing fit, Schneep quickly helping Jameson lay back down before kneeling at the other’s side, gently rubbing his back as the other kept coughing into his hand. When he pulled away, a small trickle of blood was spilling from the corner of his mouth, his hand red with the liquid.

“Oh dear,” Schneep said quietly, pulling a couple of tissues from his pockets and handing them to Chase, taking out a couple for himself to dab at the pus leaking from his own eyes before the other could see. “That is... that is not... good.” Pushing the other back down into a lying position, the doctor sighed. “Rest is what you desperately need, _Mein Freund_. Please, lie still while I go get your medicine.”

“You don’t look so good,” Chase finally forced out before falling into another coughing fit. “Are... are you sick too, bro?”

Tsking quietly, Scheep gently brushed back the other’s hair from where it hung in his eyes in sweat-soaked strands. “No, do not worry about me. Focus on getting rest.” Nodding his head so the shivering figure slumped by his side. “Your boy needs you well to help him to recovery.”

“Doc… when’d you l...ast sleep?”

Nine days.

He should’ve collapsed days ago, sleep deprivation adding with over-exertion and the infection slowly breaking him apart. And yet, there he stood. And he wasn’t planning on taking a seat until he knew the others would be alright.

Schneep pretended he hadn’t heard Chase’s question, and instead stumbled to the next room over to check on Jackie.

The next days blurred together into a nightmarish loop of pain and pleading cries from which there was no escape.

_“Please, doc, make it stop.”_

The speech slide weakly flickered in front of his eyes, the owner of which too weak to even lift his hands to sign along as he normally would.

_“I c’n’tbreathe…” A wheezing, rattling breath that sounded like death itself. “Schn… neep… I can’t… help, hel...lp me p..lease…”_

It killed him inside that all he could do was help the other turn to the side, watching with tear-filled eyes as the other coughed up blood into the bucket at his side.

_“Schneep… oh oh’my… Schneep I can’t **see** -”_

He couldn’t do anything but help Jackie prop himself up in a sitting position, trembling hands helping him take the medicine that both of them knew wasn’t helping in the slightest. “I swear I’m here Jackie, I swear I’m not going to leave you.” Dabbing at the green pus rimming Jackie’s now glazed and unseeing blue eyes, he gently took the other’s hand in his own and placed it on his chest. “Feel my heartbeat, alright? I’m right here.”

_“‘S burning, ‘s burning, Schneep please, I… I c’n’t…”_

And he knew, he knew what it felt like, and he wanted to just take the pain from Anti even at the cost of adding onto his own, but he couldn’t, he couldn’t do that, he couldn’t a damn thing to save the lives of his family….

He was the doctor. This was his job.

And he was failing.

 _Silence_.

And that was the worst one of all.

As bad as it sounded, Schneep would’ve given anything to hear Marvin complaining about the pain, because that would at least mean that the other was able to say something. But all that he heard was silence as he watched the other’s chest rise and fall in short breaths, watching each one get shallower and shorter until there was no movement at all.

And for a moment there, he just felt... nothing. The icy numbness was almost preferable to the endless pain he had been put through in the past few days (...weeks? ...Months?), and as the last of his energy left him, he managed to take one deep, real breath.

...

He didn’t even realize he had fallen to the floor until he woke the next morning, mouth filled with a thick-coppery taste, halo of blood splattered around his head, Marvin’s too-cold hand still gripped tightly in his own.

But now, there was a warmth that wasn’t there before. Blinking pus-crusted eyes open, he looked up to see Jackieboy Man had somehow made his way to the living room as was now cradling Schneep’s head in his lap. Shivering fingers gently carded through his hair, and looking to the side, the doctor saw Chase’s figure sprawled out to the side of him, free hand not in Scheep’s hair wrapped around Jameson’s shaking form.

And, most surprising of all, arm’s wrapped around Scheep’s chest, legs tangled with his own, was Anti. His head of tousled green hair was tucked under the doctor's chin, one burning hand reaching up to hold a cool rag against the other's forehead.

No words were spoken, no words really needed to be. They just sat there in their awkward, shivering, infected pile of look-alikes, huddled around the one who had tried to give so much to the others that he hadn't taken the time for himself. But for the first time in days, Schneep felt... okay. His skin was burning, his lungs heaving for breath, choking sobs of blood forcing their way from his throat.

But he was surrounded by his family.

He smiled.

And then his eyes slid shut, green pus still slowly leaking out from the closed eyelids as his breathing slowed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super weird and written in a rush... _and it shows_
> 
> I originally started this out with the intention of switching it up and giving Anti a chance to suffer with the fam... and then I may have accidentally implied killed everyone maybe... so... yeah! There's day 9, barely finished on time!


	10. Day 10: Hanahaki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 10th- Hanahaki
> 
> Fandom: Sander Sides
> 
> Pairing(s): one-sided LAMP 
> 
> _Apparently, implying that he is loved by the the others isn’t enough to count as requited love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I personally don't really ship any of the egos, so _obviously_ , I had to do some more Sides angst because I low-key ship every single pairing existent for the famdom w h o o p s. 
> 
> I mean, it was originally going to be platonic, but apparently it has to be romantic love, so here ya go.

Despite being the only one who hadn’t said it, Virgil was the only other one who had even gotten close to actually _meaning_ it.

 _“I… love… you…”_ Logan had seemed to struggle to say, finally settling on his statement of “ _Your existence is… good.”_

Keeping the same smile on his face, Patton's spirits fell as the thorns around his heart only tightened.

Roman had said it in his own way, but proclaiming that the others were ‘handsome ( _‘just not as handsome as me’_ )’ didn’t quite send across the sentiment. The prince had grudgingly mumbled a quick “I love you” to the others once Patton had insisted, but just like Logan’s, it still didn’t feel… right.

But Virgil… Virgil had at least seemed to imply that he legitimately loved the others (legitimately loved _Patton_ ), albeit in his own way as well.

_“...Can it just be, like, an understood thing?”_

_“You’re implying that you love us!”_ Patton had said excitedly.

Because, _finally_ , he thought that would make things right. That the admittance of some sort of love for the others (for _him_ ) would draw back, or at least stop, the prickly vines growing around his heart, sprouting in his lungs.

But more than a year had passed since that episode had been posted, and the growth had only increased, leaving him more often than not trapped in his room, coughing up the flowers that grew in his lungs every day.

 _“The Hanahaki Disease…”_ Roman’s voice echoed in his mind, even as he lay weakly on his bed, eyes struggling to stay open. “ _...an illness born from one-sided love, where the lover coughs up petals from the flowers that symbolize their love, which grow in the stomach, lungs, and heart until…”_

Roman’s brow had furrowed, looking quizzically down at the book that the moral side had handed him, and then back up at him. _“Why are you reading about Hanahaki? Isn’t the angsty hurt/comfort stuff more Virgil's kinda thing?”_

 _“Just thought I’d try something new, kiddo,”_ was Patton’s quick reply. _“So, you’re the romantic, fanciful side, and I know you probably know even more about this stuff than Logan...”_ At the compliment, Roman had grinned, brushing a stray strand of his perfectly-styled hair back into place.

 _“Well, of course! It doesn’t take much to know more than Logan in the feelings category. I mean, you’ve proven that point so many times in Thomas’s videos.”_ Winking at the other Side, Roman smiled. A genuine, soft smile that was so different from the usual, cheesy one he used for videos.

A smile that seemed just for Patton’s eyes alone.

It had taken all of Patton’s willpower to swallow back the wave of red rose petals surging up his throat, heart beating so fast it felt as though it would leap out of his chest.

 _“But u.. uh-”_ Choking slightly on the words, Patton had swallowed once more, then continued. _“I have to ask... what if the person never… y’know, confesses to the others?”_

Roman had just shrugged, closing the book with one hand. _“Well, typically, the flowers will just keep growing, choking out the victim. Which I never really understood. I mean, why would someone just keep quiet about those sorts of things? Follow your heart, confess!”_ Waving his hands around as he spoke, the fanciful side had continued his monologue. “ _True love always finds a way, and if it’s true love that you need to stop the flowers growing in your soul, then seize it! Why would you keep it hidden like a coward, letting the disease grow stronger and stronger until it kills both you and your chance for a happily ever after?”_

Patton had winced back at that. _“Maybe… because that coward knows that the others… won't return his feelings,”_ he said quietly, and Roman had looked down at the other with a curious frown.

 _“Is everything alright, Pat?”_ he had asked quietly, and Patton had just nodded, forcing himself to smile as he looked back up at the other.

 _“It’s just… it’s kinda sad, y’know?”_ Quickly brushed at the tears springing up in his eyes, Patton looked down at his shoes, cheeks burning in embarrassment. But Roman just tsked softly, calloused hand reaching out to tilt the other’s face back up, brushing away the falling tears with his thumb.

He didn’t say anything, just looked at the other with a concerned expression. Pulling his hand away, Patton nearly following it to just savor that feeling a moment longer, the moral side was pleasantly surprised when the other held out his arms in an invitation for a hug. He quickly stepped forward, letting the prince’s arms wrap around him, making him feel, if only for a moment, safe from the world.

 _“It is sad,”_ Roman agreed, rocking the two back and forth slightly. “ _But, as it says, that’s just an old myth. Lucky for us, we don’t have to worry about Thomas puking up flowers because of a crush.”_ Patton’s breath caught for a moment, but he then quickly nodded, nuzzling deeper into Roman’s hold. “ _Where did you even get that book?” T_ he prince’s fingers began gently carding through the other’s purple locks, making Patton nearly purr, him only just catching barely himself. Leaning into the touch, the moral side settled for letting out a content sigh, only to fall into a coughing fit. “ _Patton, I… are you feeling alright?”_

The moral side just quickly nodded, forcing himself to swallow down the slimy flowers building up in his throat. _“I, uh… I just… Lo… Lo helped me find it.”_

_“So you were looking for it intentionally? Why?”_

Logan had had the same question.

 _“Why are you researching Japanese folklore?_ ” the logical side had questioned, helping the other sift through Thomas’s memories for anything their host might’ve picked up on the subject. “ _As far as to my knowledge, Thomas hasn’t… are you alright, Patton?”_

Quickly shoving the dark blue petals into his pockets, Patton shot the other his usual, goofy grin. _“Doin’ dandy, Teach! Just clearing my throat is all!_ ” Fingers trailing on the spines of the books all neatly categorizing Thomas’s memory, he picked one out at random and flipped it open. Looking up at the other, smirking slightly, he lightly played with one of the pages. _“And I just thought I’d **take a page from your book** and do a little extracurricular, educational reading.”_

Logan stopped searching for a moment, fingers frozen in the air where he was about to pull another book out from the archive. “. _.. taking a page… from my_ …” Shoving the book back into the bookshelf, the logical side shot a look of playful exasperation at the other. “ _Are your puns really necessary in every interaction that we have?”_

Patton just giggled, looking down to where the book he was holding was opened to. “ _Oh, and would you look at that, here it is! When Thomas went on that short-lived mythology obsession! Probably around the time Roman created that Dragon Witch...”_ Closing the book gently, Patton held it so that he was hugging it to his chest. “ _Well, thanks for the help, Lo! I guess I’d better go get started reading!_ ” With a small wave, Patton turned to head back out into the conscious mindscape.

 _“Oh, uh, before you go... Patton?”_ Looking back at the logical side, Patton was surprised to see that he looked almost uncomfortable, fidgeting with his tie and before looking up at the other with a light blush covering his face. “ _I just wanted to say, I’m… I’m actually quite impressed that you’re taking the time to do some more advanced reading for fun. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Virgil or Roman pick up anything based on fact._ ” Holding up the book in his hand, he cleared his throat once before continuing. “ _In fact, I’d say it’s a rather… **novel** idea.”_

Patton had holed himself up in his room for the rest of the day, coughing up too many blue flower petals to risk going out into the commons without his feelings being found out.

But the hardest to hide from was, once again, the only one who ever meant it.

There were two tentative knocks at the door, and then a low voice nervously calling out to him. “Pat… you doing okay in there?”

He wasn’t doing okay. In the past months, where his feelings had only grown stronger along with the growth of the plants within him, his room had been affected heavily by the shift in focus. Previously, where nostalgic thoughts used to bog him down with Thomas’s memories, not letting him leave his room with all of the comforting whispers of the past, it was now full of objects reminiscent of the others.

Picture frames containing a few of Roman’s selfies, a few coloring pages that Logan and he had done as kids when coloring wasn’t ‘too childish of an activity,’ the Christmas sweater that Roman had made for him tossed in the corner, Virgil’s old hoodie slung over the back of a randomly placed chair, Logan’s old tie lying crumpled on it. There were so many photos, almost covering the entirety of his wall, along with a few notes that had been written for him pinned to the overflowing bulletin board above his bed. And of course, in the center of that board, Virgil’s Christmas card from the 2017 Christmas video. He had re-read that card too many times to count, and each time made him smile slightly at the sentiment the words carried.

And then his smile would fall as he read the last two words on the card.

_“Best Friends.”_

Friends. That was all they would ever be.

And maybe Patton would’ve been able to settle for that.

But the thorns curled around his heart wouldn’t, only digging deeper every time he read the two simple words.

On any normal day, it was hard for him to get out of bed, what with the flowers filling his lungs and the constant heartache. His emotion-filled room only enhanced these feelings, making it that much harder to get ready, to put a smile on his face, to sink out to Thomas’s living room and be surrounded by the people he loved so much but could never tell.

Today was worse than normal.

He didn’t answer Virgil. Lying on his bed, twisted awkwardly in light-blue bedsheets, Patton just blankly stared at the ceiling. One hand was held over his chest, Roman’s old sash and Virgil’s card loosely gripped over his heart. The other hand was gripped in the hoodie he was wearing, the cat one Logan had given him at the end of the nostalgia video. The gift that he really thought might turn this whole situation around, the gift that showed that the logical side truly _cared_.

There was another knock, this time a bit louder, and the moral side managed to turn his head to glance at his room’s entrance. Patton _always_ answered his door, night or day, good days or bad. He had stressed that fact time and time again, to the anxious side especially, and now here he was, lying pitifully on his bed when for all he knew, Virgil desperately needed him.

Even the thought of his dark strange friend having to suffer through an anxiety attack or a nightmare alone couldn’t push him into action.

His lungs became heavy again, a feeling that was all too familiar to the moral side at this point, and he limply let his hand fall off the side of the mattress. The feeling built into a tickling in his throat, a turn of his stomach, then morphing into a prickling surge upwards. Weakly grabbing the bucket by his bed, Patton just managed to lean over the side before he entered another coughing fit, almost choking as a flood of blood-soaked petals surged past his lips. It was almost beautiful, in a way- a mix of blues, purples, and reds, the darker red of Patton’s blood meshing them all together. Together in the way he could never be with them.

_Purple anemones, for mystery and nervous anticipation._

The clumps of petals fell into the bucket with a splat, leaving Patton gasping for air as he weakly ran the back of his hand over his dripping lips, trying to rid his mouth of any excess flowers. But before he could recover, the tickling in his lungs once again grew thick and choking, leaving him unable to breathe. Coughing weakly, black spots danced in his vision as another flood of petals pushed themselves out of his mouth.

_Blue clematis, for loyalty and intellect._

He was barely able to take a short, half-choked breath before he let his head fall back towards the bucket, another coughing fit taking over his body. He vaguely thought to himself that the fits hadn’t ever been this close together before a seemingly endless stream of soggy flowers forced their way out of his throat.

_Red rose, for love and passion._

And there they lay, a bleeding mess of mucus-covered flower petals, already nearly spilling over the edge of the bucket. Coughing weakly, Patton watched with tear-filled eyes as one last purple petal fell from his mouth, floating down to lightly land on the pile of blues and reds.

“Pat? Patton, please answer me?” The voice was shaking now. “Are you sick? Please, you have to let me in.”

But the choking feeling didn’t stop.

It always stopped, for at least a moment, giving him a small reprieve to take a breath before the next surge of flowers. But Patton still couldn’t breathe, still couldn’t get rid of the flowers clogging his windpipe, still felt the thorns wrap tighter and tighter around his lungs.

And then he felt the shift.

Full grown flowers forced their way up his throat, stems twisting and turning so that they wrapped around his throat, his face, ending above his head in a bloody, deformed flower crown. Patton bit down on the stems, watching the beautiful plants fall to the ground, but then there were more… more… too many… prying his mouth open... blocking out his screams...

His entire head was wreathed in the colors, now. They were all he could see, the sickly sweet smell mixing with the coppery tang of blood invading his nose as his vision grew darker and hazier.

He couldn’t die, he knew that. The Sides were imaginary, a figment of Thomas’s imagination, a physical representation of their host’s personality.

But as the thorny stems continued wrapping around his neck, eyes filling with the beautiful reds, blues, and purples as the flowers sprouted from every available crevice, heart cracking under the pressure, vines tearing through the flesh of his stomach, breaking through the bones of his ribcage as they curled into the air…

He wished he could.


	11. Day 11: Scratches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 11th- Scratches
> 
> Fandom: Youtube/Markiplier Egos
> 
>  
> 
> _ĐłĐ ɎØɄ ₥ł₴₴ ₥Ɇ?_

Was it perhaps a bit pathetic that you found yourself standing in your bathroom at 1 in the morning, leaning against the locked door just because you had heard a ‘spooky’ sound in your house?

Maybe.

But, in this situation, you told yourself that the reaction was perfectly justified. Hearing the creepy- disembodied laugh that sounded suspiciously like a certain green-haired glitch that you enjoyed watching when you were lying in bed in an empty house was a perfectly good reason to promptly run to your bathroom in terror and lock the door.

A+ decision making.

Breath stuttering in your chest, you kept your back pressed against the cool surface of the bathroom door, eyes closed and ears hyperfocusing on any sound outside the door.

A glitchy laugh promptly cut off with a thump.

That was the only sound you had heard in 2 whole minutes.

A subtle sound of static had been building ever since that thump, but you were blaming that on the blood rushing through your heard as your terrified heard pounded way too fast to be healthy. Focusing on taking quiet breaths, trying to steady your breathing, you tried to ignore the pain spiking in your head as the static grew even louder.

You swore that you had heard that laugh. Sure you had been half asleep at the time, but you knew what you had heard. Debating whether to leave the safety of your bathroom and call the police or stay there until you died of hunger, you tried to ignore the static growing louder and lower, filling your mind and ears until you were doubled over, hands clamped over your ears, until…

Your vision jumped, a familiar man’s face appearing directly in front of you as the setting suddenly jumped from your bathroom to a wispy grey room. Stumbling backward, you felt your back hit a wall, the structure not seeming to be entirely there, but still stopping you from moving backward any further.

“Did you ₥ł₴₴ ₥Ɇ?” The well-suited man took a step closer to your now-shaking form, hands held carefully at his sides. Opening your mouth to respond, though you weren’t sure with what, you found that you couldn’t speak, or even move. Whether by frozen by fear, or through some weird demonic magic, you didn’t know. All you knew was that it did not bode well for you.

“ł ₥ł₴₴ɆĐ ɎØɄ.”

Closer examination to his figure revealed shredded sleeves, as though an angry raccoon had decided to fight him and had won. Blood was seeping out through a multitude of scratches and knife marks winding their way up his forearms, dripping with quiet blips onto the semi-transparent floor below.

Darkiplier’s eyes followed your gaze, and he laughed a hollow, humorless laugh that echoed in the empty room around you. “Oh yes, the _septic_ ฿ł₮₵Ⱨ.” Adjusting what was left of his suit cuffs, he jerked his head to the side, took a deep breath as if to calm himself down, and then turned his dark eyes back onto you. “He tried to beat me here, to take what was ₥ł₦Ɇ.” Letting his shredded arms drop, hands clasping behind his back, he smiled. “But, I think we both knew who was stronger. He was made ł₦₮Ɇ₦₮łØ₦₳ⱠⱠɎ, as a cheap tactic to build up suspense for a ₵ⱧłⱠĐł₴Ⱨ Halloween video. But me…”

Dark took a step closer to you, effectively pinning you in the corner. Unclasping his hands, he raised his arms to gesture at the room around him. The wispy walls flickered around him, and then the room was lit up with a dim glow, as if from a computer screen. Millions of words flew by, pictures, comment sections of Youtube videos and Reddit posts.

_“Was it just me, or was Mark acting weird in this video?”_

_“anyone else see that glitch at 10:39 or is my computer just freaking out?”_

_“He’s just trying way too hard to be dark like honestly Edgeiplier isn’t really working out for you sweetheart lol.”_

Pages and pages of fanart, all picturing the imposing man standing in front of you. Drawings, edits, gifs. Site after site of fanworks, the dark ego’s name bolded and nearly jumping out in your eyes.

And then the screen directly behind Dark’s figure froze as the others continued cycling through the internet’s search results for his name, showing a screenshot of Mark’s Tumblr page, a post titled ‘RE: DARKIPLIER’ directly under the heading.

_“...I don’t know who Darkiplier is. He is not a “character” I play. I don’t even know when you all started calling him by that name. You made him real…”_

“₮ⱧɆɎ made me real,” he said, turning in a slow circle, arms still outstretched. Rivulets of red were running down his forearms, maroon droplets flung off of his skin at the whim of centrifugal force. “The fans, with their theories and comments, their ₣₳₦₩ØⱤ₭₴...”

His voice trailed off, arms coming down to once again clasp behind his back. The auras of red and blue pulsated around him as he slowly grinned, black eyes boring into your own.

“ _ **ɎØɄ**_ ₥₳ĐɆ ₥Ɇ ⱤɆ₳Ⱡ,” he whispered in conclusion. And though his voice stayed at the same low and even tone, there was an underlying emotion bleeding through the words that wasn’t there before. Biting his lip in an uncharacteristic movement, his eyes glanced over you once more. Then, almost as if there was a jump-cut in your vision, he was standing directly in front of you, hands pressed against the wall on either side of your head, effectively boxing you in the corner.

“You created me for a ⱤɆ₳₴Ø₦,” His voice was almost desperate now, leaning even closer so that there was only an inch between your faces. “It was ł₦₮Ɇ₦₮łØ₦₳Ⱡ. But ₩ⱧɎ?”

Another jump cut in your vision, static taking over your mind before Dark appeared once again in front of you, this time scratching uncomfortably at his already bleeding arms, tears running down his face. “₩ⱧɎ?” he screamed, rounding back on you, left hand rising to pull at his face. Blood-crusted nails dug into the skin of his forehead, pulling down as if trying to dig himself out of his body. “₩ⱧɎ ₩ØɄⱠĐ ɎØɄ ₲łVɆ ₥Ɇ ₳ ₱ⱧɎ₴ł₵₳Ⱡ ₣ØⱤ₥ ₦Ø₩, ₱₳ł₦₣ɄⱠⱠɎ ₮ⱧⱤɄ₴₮ł₦₲ ₥Ɇ ฿₳₵₭ ł₦₮Ø ₮Ⱨł₴ Ʉ₦₣ØⱤ₲łVł₦₲ ₩ØⱤⱠĐ, ₣ØⱤ₵ɆĐ ₮Ø ₱₳Ɽ₮₦ɆⱤ ₩ł₮Ⱨ ₮Ⱨ₳₮ ₥Ʉ₴₮₳₴ⱧɆĐ ĐɆ₥Ø₦ ₮Ⱨ₳₮ ₮ØØ₭ ₴Ø ₥Ʉ₵Ⱨ ₣ⱤØ₥ ₥Ɇ, ₳ⱠⱠ ł₦ ØⱤĐɆⱤ ₮Ø ₮₳₭Ɇ ₵Ø₦₮ⱤØⱠ Ø₣ ₳ ฿ØĐɎ ł ₮ⱧØɄ₲Ⱨ₮ ł Ⱨ₳Đ Ɇ₳Ɽ₦ɆĐ ⱠØ₦₲ ₳₲Ø?”

Your body still refused to obey you, staying frozen in the corner where you had been stuck for the majority of this encounter. All you could do was stare straight ahead, watching as the dark entity’s face got closer to yours. Fingernails digging into the sensitive skin of your wrists, your limbs refused to move of their own accord as you were pushed backward, pinned to the dingy wall behind you. A sting of pain as skin was broken, almost directly followed by a warmth spilling down your forearms.

Another jumpcut brought you into a sitting position, Dark kneeling in front of you, gently cradling your wrists in his hands as he rocked uncomfortably back and forth. Aura fluctuating once again around him, his thumb ran over the puncture wounds marring your wrists. “Unless…” he said quietly, and then his eyes were commanding your gaze again. But, this time, in those pools of black you saw the flicker of dark brown. “A certain Đł₴₮Ɽł₵₮ ₳₮₮ØⱤ₦ɆɎ who oh so kindly opened themselves up to us…”

A shiver ran down your spine at those words, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a slight smile. “We ₭₦Ɇ₩ it,” he said excitedly, grabbing your hands and pulling your uncooperative body back up into a standing position. “Old friend… it’s been far too long, Ⱨ₳₴₦'₮ ł₮? What perfect timing… you planned this, didn’t you? Oh, we always knew you were a ₴₥₳Ɽ₮ one… giving us enough power to ฿Ɇ ⱧɆⱠĐ ł₦ ₮Ⱨł₴ ₩ØⱤⱠĐ for just a moment longer... “

Vision jumping, you found yourself back on the floor, looking into the uncharacteristically eager face of the other. Dark was sitting cross-legged in front of you, placing a gentle hand on your knee. “Oh old friend, you're just ₴Ø ₲ØØĐ to us…” Another jump cut in your vision, and you were standing inches away from his figure.

“You just need to ⱠɆ₮ ₥Ɇ ł₦… one more time...” he said quietly, pulling you nearly flush to his own body, a bitter cold seeming to emanate from his very core soaking through the hug. “We won’t leave you behind… not this time. We can avenge your Ɇ₦Đ, and all of the other ends of our ₣ⱤłɆ₦Đ₴ nearly forgotten... “ His head jerked to the side again, mouth still moving even though no words came out.

And then, almost as if to himself, his voice took on a silkier, more refined tone. “Cee… a new body… no more pain… ł₥₳₲ł₦Ɇ… it’s not right… oh but who ₵₳ⱤɆ₴… so broken... They ₥₳ĐɆ ł₮ ØɄ₮ once… they can ĐØ ł₮ ₳₲₳ł₦…”

Words sat on the tip of your tongue, just barely being held back by your still-frozen body as his head jerked back with an audible crack, eyes locking on yours again.

“JɄ₴₮ ⱠɆ₮ ₥Ɇ Ʉ₴ ₥Ɇ ₥Ɇ ₥Ɇ ł₦…”

Fingers, scratching, scratching, scratching, tearing skin, letting the blood pour out as if trying to force their way in through physical means. “₱ⱠɆ₳₴Ɇ, ₱ⱠɆ₳₴Ɇ, it’s been ₴Ø ⱠØ₦₲, let us ₳VɆ₦₲Ɇ ØɄⱤ ends, ⱠɆ₮ Ʉ₴ ł₦…”

Your eyes were filled with blue and red, meshing together, and yet still remaining separate. They kept growing brighter, louder, blinding, static, where was the static coming from, the colors were so bright too bright…

And then there was a feeling of weightlessness, a shove that seemed to push your very soul, and then the feeling of heaviness, accompanied by a burning pain in your neck and…

 _Darkness_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was only kinda vaguely related to the prompt, but I feel like it fit well enough to post so here we are.
> 
> Being both my birthday and near-anniversary of when I first started actually writing for this website, I thought I'd try to do something cool to hearken back to my old writings, when I only dabbled in reader-inserts and such. A fitting memorial to who I used to be and how far I've come or something sappy like that. 
> 
> Instead I wrote this trash. But it's quality trash and I don't entirely hate it so...
> 
> Confused about what you've just read? Me too. Hit me up in the comments with any criticism, cuestions and concerns.


	12. Day 12: Let the Blood Stream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 12- Let the Blood Stream
> 
> Fandom: Sanders Sides
> 
> _But, oh, isn’t it funny how the mind can actually be pained by something that isn’t real?_

It was a surprisingly beautiful day in the mindscape. Work had been harder than usual lately, what with Thomas in a frenzy over getting the next Sander Sides video out while simultaneously working on the third installment of the 'Cartoon Therapy' videos. Being the physical embodiment of one's creativity, especially when your host's job relied on a constant stream of it, could be tiring at times.

But he couldn't be mad at his job, not when he lay in a picturesque field of sweet-smelling flowers, gazing up at a gorgeously colored sunset above him. A light breeze ruffled his purple locks, crisp orange leaves being blown from their perches and sailing through the sky above him.

Yes, work was indeed hard, and definitely took its toll on the Prince. But when he had moments like this, where he had the entire Imagination at his control, it all seemed worth the sleepless nights and constant scrambling around writers blocks to be able to live whatever scenario he desired.

But though he loved the beautiful purples and oranges that painted the sky above him, Roman was even more mesmerized by the captivating stream of red turning his body into a masterpiece below.

The fact that it was his blood coloring his skin that way should’ve risen a few warning signs in his head, but he just smiled languidly. Trailing stained fingers over bare skin, pulling pools of blood to follow looped and curvy paths at his whim, Roman soaked up the feeling while he could, ever aware of the looming shape of a manticore-chimera roaring above him. It was a shame that his princely outfit was now in tatters, huge claw marks marring his chest in nearly symmetrical patterns, but he had to admit, the revealed skin and the picturesque design it left was aesthetically pleasing.

Oh, yes, he loved his job and the control of the Imagination that came with it.

...But even in a world where he had ultimate control, where could see and experience whatever he wanted to, it still left him feeling… numb inside. No matter how many princesses and princes he saved from evil dragon witches, how many times he had created adoring towns of peasants who worshiped the very ground he walked on…

It wasn’t a feeling he could hold on to for long. The feelings were invoked by the Imagination, after all. It was all  _imaginary_.

But, oh, isn’t it funny how the mind can actually be pained by something that isn’t real?

And oh, how _dearly_ the creative Side just wanted to feel something.

He allowed himself to be batted to the side the creature’s huge claws, gasping though a smile at the pain inflicted. And though he wanted to stay like this for even a second longer, he knew he had to end the fight soon. He couldn’t die, that was certain. But the numbness that followed his erasure and slow reforming of his aspect wasn’t appealing in the slightest.

It only took a second to plunge his sword into the beast’s neck, pulling it out with a grunt and sidestepping the now defeated creature.

Examining the shredded remains of his arm, forcing himself to stay conscious, he decided that he could stay like this, for just a moment longer.

Let the blood stream. He could just fix it later.

But now, he just wanted to _feel_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda short but... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ What can you do? Day 12, and I still managed to be done on time somehow


	13. Day 13: Insects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 13th- Insects 
> 
> Fandom: Sanders Sides
> 
> _Creepy crawly death dealers._

He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t know how he had gotten there. Everything thought seemed to be erased from his mind as he focused on a single thing.

The feather-light tickle slowly making its way up his arm.

Whimpering quietly, the moral side blinking rapidly through the tears streaming from his eyes, he tried to brush at his arm only to be held back by the silky strands of white biting into his wrists. Twisting himself frantically, he managed to pull his arm free, only to have his limb caught in another strand of spiders silk. The cobwebs suspending him above the ground shouldn’t have been able to hold him this tight, but yet, here he hung, nearly immobilized and only able to watch through fear-dilated pupils as a black widow spider made its way to his shoulder.

And then there was another tickle, this time on his leg. Tiny black bodies working their way under the hem of his pants, up his legs. More creatures appeared around him, scuttling through the strands of web holding him in place, crawling across his skin and leaving silky threads in their wake.

He could feel spiders crawling into his skin, under his nails, forcing their way down his throat.

He could feel a swarm of tiny legs skittering up his neck, across his face, covering the lenses of his glasses as they forced their way through closed eyelids to burrow in his eyes.

He could feel all of this happening, could feel his eyes being forced from their sockets and falling to the floor, tongue being ripped and torn by wolf spider fangs, skin being peeled away tooth cave spiders swarming his limbs...

But even as he felt all of the pain, there was a calm voice in the back of his mind, reassuring him that it couldn’t be real. His eyes had fallen to the ground, yet he still could watch as a tarantula climbed the bridge of his nose, burrowing deep into his hair. He could still scream for help, even though his mouth was filled with coppery blood and chunks of his tongue, unrealistically unable to form the coherent words he was pleadingly shouting in hopes that someone would hear. The injuries were inconsistent. And as he looked closely at the spider dangling in front of his face, it shimmered with a vague yellow aura that Patton knew well.

And yet, even with that thought in his mind, that these were only illusions deceiving his senses, his heart was still racing, limbs weak and twitching at the touch of spider legs crawling up them, face red and blotchy as streams of tears and blood dripped to the floor.

He couldn’t move now, too tangled in the spiderwebs suspending him in the air to get free as the room seemed to spin around him. Bigger shadows loomed at him at the edge of his vision, spindly legs thick as tree trunks as the ginormous spiders got closer. The tiny waves of spiders gave way to larger tarantulas and armed spiders.

And, just barely in the darkest shadows, a glimpse of a pearly white grin, the glint of a yellow eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Internet: "Many people think that spiders are insects, but they are mistaken since insects have six legs and three main body parts."  
> Me, a person who doesn't apparently have an accurate knowledge of the classification of spiders that just finished writing a goretober prompt before realizing that now it doesn't fit: _*flips table*_
> 
> So... yeah... I didn't realize this until after I wrote it so let's just pretend that spiders are insects just for today...


	14. Day 14: Bruises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 14th- Bruises
> 
> Fandom: Youtube/Markiplier Egos
> 
> _A bored Wilford is not a safe Wilford to those who wouldn't be missed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember [Mark Bop](https://youtu.be/vq9cv3WRqbA?t=203), [Goopiplier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V7Xs0MSVAy4), and [Artiplier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aGSwTZ9JCiU&t=3s)? 
> 
> In which I take my favorites of the relatively unknown egos from the darkest depths of the fandom and try and hurt them as much as possible.

There had been pain, and then it stopped. Words were spoken, but he couldn’t understand them. All he could understand was that he had said something, footsteps had led toward the hall, and then a door had been slammed shut, leaving him curled up on the concrete floor with his entire body in pain. The ringing in his ears slowly died out, giving way to unintelligible whimpers that he took a second to register as his own.

And then, a creak of another door opening, leaving the pained ego to curl in tighter on himself, wincing at the flare of pain the movement shot across his battered skin. But instead of the heavy, off-kilter footsteps of his attacker, there were lighter, skittish footsteps sounded as bare feet padded across the floor.

There was a small noise, and then something was touching Mark Bop’s face. He flinched back at that, but once he caught the whiff of the familiar scent of peanut butter and forest, he relaxed, letting gentle hands cup his face, thumb lightly stroking his cheek.

“Oh… Bop,” the King of the Squirrels said softly, taking only a moment to carefully scope out the extent of the injuries on the other’s body. Hoisting the other up, gently wrapping one of Bop's bruised arms around his shoulders for support, he carefully pulled the half-conscious ego to his feet. “Alright, there’s not much time; he just left to go get something to drink. Can you get to the room by yourself?”

Mark Bop struggled to lift his head upright, letting it fall back to King’s shoulder as it came apparent that he wasn’t conscious enough to have much motor control over his body yet. Mumbling his usual jibberish under his breath, the syllables slurred together in a decent rendition of “Stay (I Missed You)” by Lisa Loeb.

“Alright, that’s fine buddy. I’ll help you get there, okay?” Another arm wrapped around his waist, half-supporting him as they stumbled forward, presumably towards the door. There was a moment where Bop was left to stand nearly on his own as King bent down to pick something up off the floor, and then his hat was being placed back on his head in its usual backward style. “You just gotta stay awake for a bit longer though, alright? Do you remember what happened?”

Shaking his head sluggishly, Bop muttered some more nonsensical words under his breath to the tune of “What’s New Pussycat” by Tom Jones.

And though the song wasn’t an exact fit for the question Bop wanted to ask, wasn’t even a part of his usual 90’s song selection as his frazzled brain wasn’t able to think of a better option, the other seemed to understand what he was trying to ask.

“What happened?” The other managed to nod. “I think… I think that Wilford got bored again. He might’ve cornered you after lunch, but I’m not sure. Bop, it’s been five hours since lunch, I… “ Shaking his head slightly, King continued to half-drag the other down the hall. “Do you have any major injuries?”

Shaking his head slowly, Bop stumbled as the other quickly guided him around a corner. His mind went fuzzy for a second, leaving him unable to even make his usual mouth noises, so he settled for humming a few measures of “I’m Not Okay [I Promise],” by My Chemical Romance, in response.

“You’re hurt, but nothing too bad?” the other asked in quick clarification, pulling him into one of the many rooms lining the hall, and Bop nodded, finally finding enough energy to pry his eyelids open. Or, at least try. His left eye seemed swollen shut, but through his right, he could see a familiar mirror come into view. Letting out a sigh of relief, because the mirror meant _safety, not hurting, his family_ , he let King guide him up to where it sat on the wall. A vaguely humanoid shape paced in the cracked reflection, figure too wispy and fleeting to make out any definite features about it. It looked up as King pulled Bop up to the surface, and then resumed pacing.

At least the figure wasn’t flipping out any time anyone showed up anymore. When the mirror had first been discovered, the shadow had gotten riled up whenever someone else got near, banging on the cracked glass, mouth opening in soundless screaming. It used to scare the Jims so much that they wouldn’t come near it, which was a pretty big problem considering that the mirror covered the only entrance to the safe room the lesser egos had designated themselves. Now, though, the figure only seemed to freak whenever Wilford ventured down the decrepit hallway. Even more so the one and only time Dark had found his way face to face with the figure in the reflection.

Dark, pale-faced and guilty-looking, hadn’t come back since. Wilford said that it gave him the ‘heebie-jeebies’ and refused to go near it unless absolutely necessary, which left them with the perfect place to hide out any time any of the bigger egos (mostly Wilford) got bored and wanted some fun with the beings that wouldn’t be missed if things went too far.

Giving a courteous nod to the mirror, King helped Bop lean against the wall and, with a swish of his cape, slid the mirror into the wall to reveal a simple oak door.

“Bop, my little musical plaything, where’d you scamper off too?” a laughing, accented voice echoed down the hallway, making said ego whimper and shrink in on himself even as the shadowy figure in the mirror perked up, hands on the glass as it tried to look past the two and see where the other voice was coming from. Quickly turning the doorknob, shoving his weight against it until the door grudgingly opened with a screech of wood-on-floor, King ran back to the other’s side, carefully helping him up and pulling him towards the entrance.

"You're going to be okay, alright?" Nervously wiping at his chin, tiny flecks of dripping peanut butter finding their way stuck to the other ego's vest, he helped the other step through the doorway. "Lock the door behind you, just in case. If you could remind the Jims to feed my subjects, that would be amazing. And there is some medicine in-"

A shadow loomed at the edge of the hallway, and King's eyes widened before lightly pushing the other into the room. "Go," he hissed quietly, moving to close the door, other hand already gripping the rim of the mirror in preparation to slide it closed over the brushed oak.

And finally, his mind seemed to clear, thoughts clicking into place. Even through the haze of a possibly concussed head, Bop gripped the edge of the door to keep it from closing. Eyes wide, he vigorously shook his head as he quietly babbled along to the tune of "Alone Together” by Fall Out Boy.

And, even though once again, the song wasn't nearly close to the desperation or meaning he was trying to convey, the older ego seemed to understand.

He always did.

“I can’t go in with you just yet… Someone’s gotta keep him busy,” King said quietly, managing a small smile. “You know he’s not going to stop until it’s all out of his system. Otherwise, it’ll just build up and he’ll go for more than physical trauma, and… well, you saw what happened with Artie. I can't..." The footsteps were getting closer now, and King took another deep breath before continuing. "... I can't let... that... happen again. To any of you..."

And with an apologetic look, as if knowing that Bop wasn't going to move unless he did something, he shoved the ego in as gently as he could. Hitting the ground hard, not being able to bite back the moan that escaped his lips when his bruised ribs were jostled, all the other could do was watch the door slam closed just as another booming voice sounded down the hall.

"Oh, the King of the Squirrels! What a... pleasant surprise!"

It was too late to do anything now, and Bop knew it. Trying to drag the older ego in would only result in the mustached maniac finding their only safe spot, and that... That would not end well at all. Dragging himself painfully to a standing position, the ego slid the lock home, wincing slightly as the exchange outside the door bleed through the walls.

"...well, you're not as fun to play with... But I guess you'll do in a pinch..."

A loud thump, a pained whimper, and Bop squeezed his eyes shut, turning away from the door to look at the room behind him.

Goopiplier was languidly smearing a red-tinged slime across the floor, stopping only to add more drops of red food coloring to the mix before continuing, muttering about appeasing the dark lords under his breath. He pulled uncomfortably at the bandage wrapped at his hand, but he seemed to be willing to hold up his agreement with King about not using his blood for any more offerings that week.

And, in his dark corner of the room, Artiplier was frantically swiping different colors of paint over the canvas as a group of the King’s subjects watched with interest. Bop still wasn’t sure if King ordered the squirrels to keep an eye on the fragile-minded ego that he was so protective of while he was gone, or if the creatures legitimately liked to watch the other paint. Pausing only for a moment to adjust his beret, Artie then proceeded to drop the paintbrush, stroking his chin as he examined the painting, and then continuing the job with his fingers.

They used to have more members of their family. The Host had been there at one point, and he still occasionally talked with them or came by to read his stories to the Jims, who nearly worshiped them. But especially since the ‘Markiplier TV’ video in which a lot of them had been born, he hadn’t really been able to be considered a ‘lesser ego,’ considering all of the fan attention he had gotten. As was the same with Ed Edgar and the Silver Shepherd. After receiving a bit of fan attention, putting themselves in a spot where they felt they could fit in with the ‘greater egos,’ they had gotten different rooms. Well, Ed hadn’t, but after he tried to sell The Jims to Wilford for ‘an amazing deal of only $19.99!,’ King had told him at a peanut butter- covered butterknife-point that it was better if he tried to find his place with the bigger egos at the other side of the house. Bop honestly wasn’t that sad to see the child-selling ego go.

And then there was Yandereiplier. Nobody really knew where he stayed, but he popped up between the two ego groups as he pleased, occasionally spending a day painting with Artiplier (though Bop was slightly concerned when Yan had brought in their own bucket of red ‘paint’), or going on a murder spree with Wilford. Luckily, as none of the lesser egos had done anything to, or even really knew anything about, Yan’s senpai, they hadn’t been touched, even when Wilford tried to convince him to join in the fun.

And there were dozens more, egos that Mark had channeled once and then never thought of again. But nobody had seen some of them after their creation. He just assumed they had formed another group similar to the one he was in, in a hopefully safer area of the house they all found themselves in.

(...He still wasn’t really sure where they were. Or who they were. Or what they were.)

The King of the Squirrels was the only exception to their family.

Being the only one of the group who was part of the ‘original three,’ up there with Dark and Wilford, he was also the only one who could technically be considered a ‘greater ego’ from the subtle but continual attention he got through the fanbase. And yet, he stayed, acting as almost a parental figure to the younger egos.

Bop winced as a loud ‘bang’ sounded from the hall, followed by a goofy chuckle and some muffled words.

“There are strange noises coming from the other side of the door. Perhaps Goop has succeeded in raising another demon? Or, maybe, The Host has come back to read the Jims some of his stories? Only investigation will tell. Jim and tiny Jim, follow me!” Waving Camera Jim forward, who had a squirrel perched one shoulder, Microphone Jim, who had somehow gotten past Bop without him knowing, reached for the doorknob.

Before he could unlock it, however, Bop quickly rushed over to pull his hand away, shaking his head.

“What is it, Mark Bop? Do you know a crucial point to the story?” The camera was turned towards his face, waiting for him to speak.

Bop merely shook his head again, incoherent babbling along to a song he vaguely remembered about ‘closing the goddamn door.’ After a moment of confusion, The Jims finally seemed to get the general gist of what he was trying to say, turning to him instead to find something else to satisfy their curiosity.

“Mark Bop seems to be covered in lots of strange colors.” The ego whipped around as his arm was poked, a burst of pain blossoming from the bruise being touched. “Closer examination shows that they appear to be bruises. Jim?”

Camera Jim pushed the lens of his camera closer to Bop’s arm. “Yes, indeed they are, Jim. Who or what could have caused such a colorful addition to Mark Bop’s skin? The perpetrator could be within this house, nay, within this very room!” The squirrel on his shoulder squeaked in agreement, and Camera Jim nodded sagely. “Tiny Jim agrees, we must investigate!”

Shakily pulling the camera up to face him, Microphone Jim lowered his voice to a whisper. “You heard it here first, folks. It appears there is a bruise-maker on the loose. A hard chair in a position in which it can be easily bumped in, or perhaps a hugger that squoozes its victims too tightly? We will bravely investigate the room to answer this question.”

Bop managed a small smile as the Jim’s turned to go ‘investigate’ the room. The antics of the more child-minded egos never failed to brighten his spirits, and somewhat restored his hope that good things really did exist in the world.

His smile fell as Camera Jim’s shirt rode up slightly as he tried to see onto the top shelf of the cupboard in their small kitchenette, revealing a thick layer of bloodstained bandages wrapped around his stomach from last week’s ‘activities.’

It killed him inside that they couldn’t even keep the more pure of the egos untainted from the others’ insanity.

“Hey,” a quiet voice said, and Bop turned to see that Goopiplier was now standing behind him, a trail of red slime dripping from his hands following him as he took a step closer. “You okay, Bop?”

Keeping his arms at his side, bruised skin too sensitive to even cross his arms over his puffy vest, he managed to find a song to fit what he was trying to say, softly babbling along to the tune of “Sorry I Hurt You” by Donell Jones.

Goop looked at him in concern. “You… I’m fine, Bop. You’re the only that looks hurt. Are you…” And then another laugh was heard from the hallway, muffled only slightly by the door, followed by a quiet noise of pain. “Oh,” he said quietly, situation seeming to click and Bop looked at the ground shamefully, feeling his eyes sting with tears.

And then there was a light pressure on his arm, Bop only just managing to not jerk away at the touch. Goop was looking intently at the other’s arm as he gently smeared three six’s onto the skin with the red food coloring still dripping from his fingers. After he had finished, he patted Bop’s arm reassuringly. “It’s not your fault,” he said quietly, before taking a seat cross-legged on the floor, motioning for the other to sit down as well. “Rest, and may the dark gods take the pain from your injuries.” And with that, he pulled the other down to sit next to him, letting him rest his tired head on his shoulder.

“And I do believe we’ve found it, Jim and tiny Jim! A cure for our color-aching friend!” And then an icepack was shoved in Bop’s face, held out by a concerned-looking Jim. Behind him stood the other Jim, who had ditched his camera to instead hold a pillow and their group’s designated ‘feel better soon’ blanket, ‘tiny Jim’ on his shoulder holding one of those tiny travel-sized containers of peanut butter. “Why, I do believe it was Mark Bop himself who said that a pack of ice such as this would help the bruise’s pain tremendously when the mustached man accidentally hurt Jim during their game last month!”

Bop managed a watery smile as he shakily took the icepack. Keeping his arm held out, the squirrel scampered down the limb, stopping on the Jim’s outstretched hand. “Tiny Jim also wishes to help,” Camera Jim said quietly, and the squirrel made a noise of agreement before holding out the peanut butter, which Bop took as well with a small nod of gratitude. Mind getting fuzzier and fuzzier, he took a moment to think before settling on humming a couple measures of “I’m Sorry,” by Imagine Dragons.

“You don’t need to be sorry for anything,” Goop said quietly, looking up from where he was smearing a small 5-pointed star on Bop’s hand. “We’re a family. And, besides, you’ve helped us more than enough times before. We know you take the punishments sometimes so we don’t have to. You and…”

A strangled yelp sounded from the hallway, and the room fell silent, the only sound being the muffled bangs as the shadow in the mirror presumably started banging against the surface again. Even Artiplier’s murmurings stopped, and he looked towards the door with an uncharacteristically concerned expression. The scurry of squirrels at his bare feet all stopped as well, tiny heads turning in almost perfect synchronization towards the door.

“...you and King,” Goopiplier quietly finished, hands moving from Bop’s to pick at the bandages covering the scarred skin on his legs.

A pillow was slid behind Bop’s back and the soft fleece blanket wrapped around his shoulders. “Mark Bop didn’t do anything wrong by letting King take his hurt,” Camera Jim added, voice uncharacteristically soft and quiet as he helped the other lean back against the wall, arranging the pillow so that Bop would be as comfortable as his bruised skin would allow.

There was a small clatter as a bottle of Ibuprofen rolled across the floor, coming to a stop as it hit Bop’s foot. Eyes looking upwards in confusion, he was surprised to see that Artiplier had, for one of the only times in his entire being here, been pulled away from his art voluntarily. Eyes flitting around the room nervously, he scratched lightly at the skin above the red fabric wrapped around his neck, leaving lines of red paint over the red lines of scars already there. “It… the pills, they… help,” he said quietly. “With the pink man’s marks and the red man’s control.”

Bop wasn’t exactly sure what the artist was referring to in regards to the ‘Red Man,’ but just nodded in thanks, picking up the bottle and trying to open it with purple-bruised fingertips.

"Let me help," Goop said, taking the canister and opening it for the other.

Only to let it fall to the ground in a jerk as a loud scream bled through the walls.

Pills clattered to the ground as the slime-covered ego's hands raised to claw at his ears, eyes watering in terror. The Jims froze where they were standing, pupils blown wide and breaths coming in uneven gasps.

And Artiplier completely broke down, grasping futily as his neck as his vision went unfocused, mumbling wildly under his breath. He didn't seem to be breathing, just staring ahead at unseen horrors as his nails dragged at the marred skin of his neck, leaving behind bleeding scratches.

Bop’s eyes burned with unshed tears, and he choked back a sob. And then he was lunging forward, taking the artist's shaking body in his arms and holding him close, keeping a tight grip on the other's hands as he dragged them away from his neck. His entire body screamed out in pain as the bruises were touched, but he bit it down, forcing his woozy mind to focus as the man in his arms choked for breath.

And then the Jims were on the left side of him, carefully wrapping their arms around their friend’s bruised body, pressing their tear-stained face into Bop’s arms as if trying to hide from the world. Even with how gently the younger egos was being, Bop whimpered as the bruises touched flared up in pain once again, but he only pulled the others closer.

A gunshot echoed in from the hall, and then Goop was curled up against Bop’s other side, breaths coming fast and entire body shivering in terror. Keeping one aching arm around the Jim’s, one of which who was now quietly trying to calm his brother, he stroked Goopiplier’s hair comfortingly. His vision was going hazy again, flashing in and out of focus, but there was no way he was abandoning the other egos right now. Willing himself to stay conscious for just a while longer, Bop began to softly sing in his nonsensical way as he pulled the others even closer. He wasn’t sure what song he was singing- it sounded kind of like a weird acapella version of Mark’s ‘Crazy la Paint’ outro- but he could feel the other’s relaxing slightly, so he kept on singing.

There was one last choked scream from the other side of the door, and he winced, arms around the others tightening protectively.

And then there was silence.

“C’mon, Kingy-boy, I’m just messin’ with ya. Now’s not the time for playing dead!”

He had gotten away with only bruises.

He wasn’t sure that King had gotten so lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... did I expect to write something with literally _any_ of these egos??? No.
> 
> Did I end of getting kinda carried away with the idea??? Yes. 
> 
> Would I now die for literally any one of these characters?? 
> 
> ...Probably?????
> 
> The King of the Squirrels is now the mom friend/protective older brother of the lesser egos group and you can pry that headcanon from my cold dead hands.


	15. Day 15: Nosebleed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 15th- Nosebleed
> 
> Fandom: Youtube/Jacksepticeye Egos
> 
> _These were warnings._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I call this one: 'Work was hectic and I ran out of time so here have a quickly written I-really-didn't-think-this-one-out addition that is only being posted so I don't miss a day'

Jackieboy Man considered himself the strongest of Jack’s egos. He was a superhero, after all. He fought crime, had tough skin, could heal quickly, and almost never got hurt.

 

He also got very frequent nosebleeds, much to the displeasure of his doctoral friend. 

 

“Honestly, Jackie, you have to be more careful when you’re out like this,” Schneeplestein lectured his friend as he nudged him to lean forward, directing him to pinch the bridge of his nose.

 

“Schneep, its not that big of a deal,” Jackie complained, voice slight nasally as his nose was blocked, watching as little drops of blood fell for the white tile below. 

 

“If you’re getting hurt this much, then it is a big deal!”

 

“It wasn’t from fighting crime or anything, doc,” the hero assured him, hopping off the exam table. “Really, I’m fine.”

 

And though the doctor let him head back to his room, he made sure to keep a close eye on him for the rest of the week.

 

____   
  


It was only a few more days before the hero found himself back in Schneep’s room, holding a steadily reddening tissue to his nose.

 

“Oh dear, that looks like it’s a heavy flow.”

 

“I just came in to get an ice pack,” Jackie said dismissively, rooting through the doctor’s supplies. “Really, I’m fine.”

 

But even as he complained, he grudgingly let his friend sit him down on his bed, rolling his eyes even as he allowed the doctor to do a quick checkup.” 

 

_______

 

“Another nosebleed?” Schneep questioned, looking curiously at the other where he was standing in his doorway. Jackie just sheepishly nodded, allowing himself to be guided back to the examination table.  “I would consider  Idiopathic thrombocytopenic purpura, but you don’t seem to easily bruise, it’s just your nose…” Schneep muttered to himself, and the hero just shrugged, not exactly sure what the other was referring to. 

 

“Just need a couple tissue packs,” the hero said as he once again allowed himself to be subjected to an examination. 

 

“No, you are going to stay here until I find the problem,” Schneep said firmly, and Jackie just grinned, rolling his eyes.    
  
He was eventually allowed to go back to his room a few hours later, after Schneeplestein had failed to find anything wrong with him.

 

_______

 

“Another one?”

 

This time, the hero didn’t say anything in complaint as he was once again subjected to a checkup, just nodded silently as the doctor handed him another box of tissues.

 

He didn’t bother trying to explain what he had figured out months ago. That these weren’t just random nosebleeds.

 

These were warnings.

_________

 

And then he had gotten one while sitting on the kitchen counter, watching with a smile as Chase tried to teach Marvin how to bake ‘the right way,’ masked magician just groaning as he tried to explain that magic was ‘easier’ and that Chase was being ‘so lame.’

  
The vlogger had looked back at him, laughing eyes filled with a determined look. “Back me up here, Jackie! Magic-made cookies just don’t… hey, are you alright?”

 

The hero just tilted his head to the side slightly. “Yeah, I’m fine? Why?” 

 

Chase just pointed at his face, and Jackie suddenly became aware of the drip of red falling from his nose, staining his casual hoodie. 

 

His eyes widened. “Oh… oh no, that means…” Jumping off the counter, he quickly tried to usher his confused friends out of the room. “You guys gotta go. Now.”

 

“Jackie, it’s just a little nosebleed, it doubt it’s going to-”

 

A glitchy laugh had echoed down the hall, a familiar green figure popping into existence, leaning against the wall. Examining his knife, he turned towards the shell-shocked family.

 

̵͚̄“̴͇̿T̸̝̅h̸̺̽ö̵͍́u̷̙̔g̸͕̈h̵̞̾t̸̺͋ ̵̹̕Ḯ̷̝’̷̢d̴͚̕ ̶̂͜m̴̢͂ȁ̴̬k̵̦̉e̵̛̬ ̶̤̚a̵͍̾ ̷̖̓h̶̬͆ỏ̷͇ȗ̵̪s̴̟ḙ̷̑ ̵͓̋c̴͚̀a̴͇͐l̵͓̽l̸̻͛,̴͈̈́ ̷̻̐s̸̼͋ḧ̵͚́a̵̲̅ḵ̵͘e̸̯ ̴̥̆t̴̺̍h̶̪͑ĭ̴̠n̵̛͕g̵͎̑s̴̤̽ ̷̫̔ṵ̵̕p̸̦̾ ̸̠̈a̵̹͆ ̷̌ͅb̷̼̏i̴͓͛t̶̳̑,̶̹̎”̴̕͜Anti said with a grin. ̶̠͋.̶̪̔ ̵̙“̶̬̉D̷̪͝i̸̹̿d̴̼̋’̴͍j̵͙́a̴̛̟ ̸̭̈m̵͚̑i̷͍̇s̶̱̋s̷̤̀ ̴̣̍m̶̤͝e̴̯͊,̶͔̒ ̸̦͛J̸̩͘a̶̼̾c̷͚̕k̸̘̀i̴̲̔e̵̬͠b̵̟̒o̸̘͗ẏ̸̜?̴̤”̸͔̽

  
  


Jackie just fell back into fighting stance, not saying a word as he stared down the villain he had been fighting more and more over the past, the only sound coming from the tiny blips as drops of blood fell to the floor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... yeah. Basically a spidey-sense but with nosebleeds. Idk. Tomorrow's will be better


	16. Day 16: Obsessed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 16th- Obsessed
> 
> Fandom: Sanders Sides
> 
> _The first step on the road to obsession starts when want turns to need._

Patton _wanted_ Virgil to feel included.

For years, his dark, strange son had been outcasted from their group. Offhandedly put down by Logan, constantly insulted by Roman, and openly rejected by Thomas. That would negatively affect anyone, and it was apparent in the already anxious side’s mannerisms that it would take some work to get him to a point where he was wanted.

And so, especially once the other has told them his name, let them into his life a little bit in return for the chance at acceptance, Patton had jumped at the opportunity to at least invite the anxious side to do things with them. Movie nights, family dinners, adventures into the Imagination; anything the ‘family’ was doing together, the moral side was sure to invite the other along.

But, Patton had to admit, he liked the nights where they were alone a lot better than the times he managed to wrangle Virgil into yet another family movie night. It was still a little awkward, what with his and Roman’s past relationship, as well as Logan’s straightforward, and borderline rude, additions to conversations.

But when Roman was off doing whatever he did in the Imagination, Logan locked in his room for yet another sleepless night of scheduling and organization, Patton would offer a simple invitation to the anxious side, one which the other always accepted with a shy smile and eager nod. It was easier, as Patton and Virgil had always had some sort of bond, and there wasn’t any awkwardness in the silences that permeated the movie watching.

It was on one such night, near Christmas, that the anxious side had uttered two words that really began the beginning of another level deeper in Patton’s affections for his dark shadowling.

“Thanks, dad,” Virgil had sleepily mumbled, voice slurred in his half-conscious state.

And even though the anxious side was already asleep by then, probably not even feeling Patton stiffen, and then utterly melt at the words, Patton couldn’t stop himself from responding.

“No problem, kiddo,” he said quietly, pressing a light kiss to the other’s fluffy purple hair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Patton _needed_ Virgil to feel loved.

He wasn’t quite sure when it simple desire had turned to a consuming need, but he didn’t question it. The other was just so perfect, in his own adorable way. Such an adorable little kiddo that just couldn’t seem to understand how amazing he was. How loved he was.

And, yeah, Virgil had even said that he was self-deprecating. He seemed to realize that he did think negatively about himself, tore himself down far too often. But even though the other acknowledged it, that still didn’t seem to help him realize any more that he was loved. That the deprecating thoughts that filled his mind weren’t true.

The others really weren’t helping, much to Patton’s dismay.

Like the time Roman had let a nickname slip. It wasn’t even a new one; it was one from one of the first videos.

“...oh, come on, _Hop Topic_! Lighten up a little!” the fanciful side had said jokingly, nudging Virgil lightly, the darker side only rolling his eyes.

Roman had immediately bit back the words at the look that Patton shot him, almost shrinking under the disproving glare. The prince should’ve known better, seeing as how he was one who had given the harmful nicknames such a negative connotation for Virgil for so many years!

Patton tried not to pay attention to the satisfaction he felt at seeing Roman’s terrified expression, instead focusing on his scared-looking son, who immediately excused himself from Patton’s hug and rushed upstairs.

Logan had later pulled him aside, asking what was wrong.

“Didn’t you see the fear in his eyes after Roman called him that?” Patton said earnestly. “The poor kiddo is just so scared he’ll be outcast from the group again, that Roman is seeing him how he once did again.”

“Patton… he wasn’t scared because of the nickname,” the logical side said slowly. Patton stopped for a moment, replaying the moment in his head. He distinctly could picture Virgil’s fearful expression, almost perfectly mirroring the fanciful side’s next to him as Patton had glared at him.

Assuming the other had finally realized something (a wrong assumption; Patton still didn’t see what was supposed to have really startled Virgil), the other continued. “Actually, this has been a recurring problem for a better part of the year,” Logan said quietly, adjusting his glasses as he looked away from the other.

“And I absolutely agree!” Patton cut him off, watching as Logan’s head popped up, a hopeful expression on his face.

“You… you see the problem?” He said with relief. “Oh, thank goodness. I wasn’t exactly sure how to bring up your increased obsession regarding V-”

“Roman says he’s trying to be nicer, but he’s obviously not putting in that much effort,” Patton cut him off angrily.

“Patton, that’s not…” Clearing his throat awkwardly, the logical side tried to finish his thought. “Roman and Virgil are actually… I believed they were becoming quite close friends. Maybe even more than..." Shaking his head slightly, he adjusted his glasses once again. "Never mind. The real issue here-”

“And neither are you if I’m being frank,” the other once again cut him off. “Did you make any effort to stop Roman from calling him those things? Did you try once this week to integrate him into any of your activities?”

“P-Pat, I don’t think… I…”

“Virgil’s a part of our family now, and I honestly thought you guys would be mature enough to accept that,” Patton hissed, pushing a shocked logical side to the side as he left the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Virgil was _going_ to be loved, no matter how many people seemed to be against that.

Didn’t he understand that this was going to be better for him? The other sides only brought him down. Even Thomas brought him down. Nobody seemed to be able to treat the adorable shadowling the way he deserved.

But Patton saw him for what he truly was. He always had and always would. He was the only one who could ever show Virgil how amazing he was. How loved he should be.

Taking a deep breath, Patton looked over himself in the floor-length mirror set against his wall. Straightening his cardigan, then throwing on his signature, goofy smile, his eyes fell on the dark figure in the background of his reflection. Closer examination revealed that the figure was shaking slightly.

Immediately, the other’s smile fell. “No… V, please don’t cry,” Patton said softly, turning around to carefully walk over to where his son was seated. Kneeling down, looking up into Virgil’s tear-filled eyes, the moral side just tsked quietly, placing a hand over the other’s freezing one.

His smile fell even more as his fingers brushed the rough rope pinning the other’s straining wrists to the arm of the chair.

“Buddy, what did I tell you?” Patton said quietly, lightly fingering the bloodied rope. “You can’t tug too hard or it’ll hurt you…”

Virgil only struggled harder, trying to force words past the cloth gagging his mouth. Making soft shushing sounds, Patton raised a hand to the other’s head, gently stroking the other’s grimy hair, ignoring how the other tried to jerk away.

“Aw, don’t worry, kiddo,” Patton said gently, wiping away one of his boy’s tears with the pad of his thumb. “I’ll be right back, alright? Just need to grab some food, and then I’ll come right back and I’ll make sure to give you extra cuddles to make up for me leaving, okay?"

Lightly cupping Virgil's cheeks with hands, he gently forced the other to look at him. And oh, his poor boy looked so scared. His stomach turned at the thought of what the other side's treatment of Virgil had done to him, and he had to force his expression to not turn angry.

“And maybe,” Patton said softly, still stroking the other’s hair. “Once we get back, we can come up with some excuses. Logan's already suspicious, but I think if we brainstorm a bit, we'll be able to fool him for a bit longer. Saying you're not feeling well isn't going to last more than a couple more days, and Roman's about ready to break down your door." Pausing in thought, he cocked his head to the side. "We could talk over some pasta? I've kinda been craving some today."

Virgil only tugged at his bonds in response, Patton wincing as the ropes dug into his already bleeding skin. "And!" he started again suddenly. "If you behave good while I'm gone, maybe I'll let you out for a bit? We could cuddle; maybe watch a movie? I've got 'The Black Cauldron,' I know that's one of your favorites..." He sighed, looking pleadingly into the other's wide eyes. "I don’t want to keep you like this, buddy, you know I don't. But I can’t exactly let you run free if you’re going to head straight back into those horrible relationships with the others."

Patton stood up, patting Virgil's head reassuringly. “I know that it’s their fault, excluding you, rejecting you for so long that the way they are currently treating you seems right. But it isn’t. It isn't right, it never was."

Turning towards the door that led out to the hall, Patton looked back one last time. His heart hurt at the sight of Virgil straining in the chair, wrists and ankles becoming slick with blood as he twisted and turned in the restraints. "I’m the only one who can treat you how you deserve, kiddo. You’ll see that soon enough."

And though it hurt, Patton forced himself to go out into the hall, closing the door on his boy's muffled screams and sobs.

...Maybe Logan's word choice all those months ago was accurate. Maybe Patton _was_ obsessed with Virgil’s wellbeing.

But was that really such a bad thing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Is platonic, parental Yandere a thing?


	17. Day 17: Electrocution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 17th- Electrocution
> 
> Fandom: Sanders Sides
> 
> _It was the simple psychology of the carrot and the stick._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that a majority of my 'audience' or whatever is here for the Jack/Mark/Ego stuff, so this is just a quick reminder that if you aren't familiar with the Sanders Sides fandom, or any other I may write, you are in no way obligated to read it. I ain't gonna be offended, and I'm still gonna read/comment on your stuff even if you don't mine or whatever xD Idk, just thought I'd throw that out there 'cuz I feel kinda bad

It had upset Patton a lot the first time he had heard it.

“Why would anyone do that to cute little puppies?” he had nearly wailed, practically shoving his laptop in the other’s face as Logan had walked by, staring intently at the schedule he was working on.

Biting back a small scream at being yanked from his concentration, the logical side had given the other a look of disapproval before glancing at the laptop screen held inches from his face. It appeared to be a site dedicated to the proper equipment needed to house and train a puppy.

Sighing deeply, Logan shook his head. “Patton, we’ve already discussed this. Thomas does _not_ have the means to take care of a dog!”

Blushing slightly, the moral side had looked down. “I was just… looking at them…” he mumbled sheepishly. “There’s this really cute golden retriever picture on the second article, and there’s this cute little gif next to the ‘adopt a dog’ button that wags its tail when you click it, and…” Smiling slightly, he quickly shook his head, trying to get back on track. “But that’s not the problem! It says here that they offer shock collars for training dogs!”

Glancing at the webpage briefly, Logan merely adjusted his glasses before turning back to the schedule in his hand. “It says that it can merely be provided as an option; it isn’t necessary, Patton.”

“But people actually do that to the adorable babies?” Dropping the laptop, the moral side hopped up onto his knees, turning so that he was looking at the logical side over the back of the couch. “They shock them into behaving well? That’s so wrong!”

And even though Logan had a very important scheduling issue to work on and talk about with Thomas, he somehow found himself in a two-hour long conversation discussing the tactics, purposes, and ethical dilemmas brought up around the use of shock collars on dogs.

It was the simple psychology of the carrot and the stick. You could reward an animal with a treat, the ‘carrot,’ if you would, as positive reinforcement to continue good behavior. But, you could inversely use a punishment, the ‘stick,’ to discourage bad behavior. It was ideal to use both a carrot and a stick, the animal moving away from the punishment and going towards the treat, ingraining a positive connotation in the animal’s mind with good behavior and a treat and getting away from the punishment.

Interestingly enough, it was also possible to use the stick as both the treat and the punishment. The reward for good behavior simply being the absence of punishment, and still providing the same results. The ethics behind the practice were debatable, but in the end, as a shock didn’t hurt the animal too bad, just offered some negative stimuli, it helped ingrain the ‘correct’ behavior in the pet’s mind all the more quickly.

Honestly, it was all fascinating.

So fascinating, in fact, that he was reminded of it months later as he once again straightened the pillows on the unusually silent living room couch. Fluffing Morality’s favorite (light blue, cross-stitched paw prints, covered in iron-on stickers of puppies and hearts) before setting it back on the cushions just so, Logan turned the idea over and over in his mind.

In all of this time alone, he had a lot of extra silence to fill with thoughts other than of Thomas’s usual dilemmas that required his input. Specifically, a thought regarding this little… experiment, of sorts, that he had been mulling over for a few days.

Every since Deceit had revealed himself to Thomas in the “Can Lying Be Good?” video, the snake-faced side had been popping more and more. He confused Thomas with his words, make the other sides uneasy in his presence, and continually derailed basic discussions with his twisted half-truths.

Virgil had begun staying in his room more often, something he hadn’t done since he had been accepted as part of the family. That alone was enough to put a damper on Patton’s spirits, which, added with the constant unease the moral side already felt as a result of the other using his guise to manipulate the others, led to him staying locked in his room more often as well. Especially concerning the problems that were brought to light in the nostalgia videos about Patton’s emotional wellbeing and the effect staying in his room had on that, Logan grew increasingly worried every day the paternal figure didn’t show up for meals in the commons.

(His worry was simply professional, he reassured himself as he relocated most of his office work to the couch in the living room of the common area of the mindscape. He figured he might as well do his job in the commons if he ended up spending most of his waking hours there anyway, on the off chance that one of the other sides would make an appearance. The logical side’s job was to make sure Thomas was doing alright, and he could not fulfill that duty if his host’s emotions weren’t at their best. Any worry he might have for Morality’s wellbeing personally was completely and utterly unimportant and/or nonexistent, as he had proved time and time again that he was totally incapable of having ‘feelings.’)

And then there was Roman, who, for all the bravado he displayed around the others, had slowly grown so paranoid that he couldn’t even hole up in his room. Logan really wasn’t exactly sure where the creative side disappeared to every day, but he knew through many attempts to locate him within his room that the other rarely spent time there anymore, and he was almost never in the main area of the mindscape. Upon questioning the princely character during one of the few times he had braved the commons, Roman had quietly told the logical one that he was afraid of Deceit’s lies once again manipulating him into hurting the others, and that he knew that he was more susceptible to them when in the Imagination. He didn’t elaborate any further, but Logan could see that there was more than just the events that had transpired at the ‘theater’ dreamspace that had made the fanciful one act this way.

It wasn’t that he missed them or anything.

But…still, it was obvious that Deceit’s reign was becoming too much. Even Thomas was starting to realize something was wrong, occasionally bringing it up with Logic to see why he felt so… off.

So, if this experiment to help Thomas ‘tune out that inner coach’ of self-preservation, as his host had so aptly put it, ended up helping the other sides individually along with Thomas as a whole, then that was all the better. But, of course, that wasn’t the whole reason he was doing this or anything. This was strictly professional, for the wellbeing of their host.

Seeing a certain cardigan-clad beam of sunshine smiling as he made the others waffles in the kitchen, a darkly-clothed shadowling smirkingly slightly as they bobbed their head to their music from their uncomfortable position on a random piece of furniture, and a flamboyant prince filling the silence with their theatrics in the common area would just be a pleasant side effect.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Playing with the shining links in his hands, Logan weighed the pros and cons in his mind.

For one, the use of a choke collar could provide positive results. But, adversely, as there was no way for the handler to control how much the chain tightened around the pet’s neck, there was the potential for the misbehaving animal to strangle themselves. Logan was merely trying to correct behavior, not attempt to kill anyone.

There was a moment of thought, and then Logan shook his head, waving the chains out of existence and willing a different collar to appear in his hands.

The moment he saw the blunted, yet still barbed tips, he winced. Yeah, he had known that even as a thought, the prong collar wouldn’t be the best way to go about this. Not only was it seen as more inhumane in his eyes than the choke collar, but it could also potentially cause even more problems than merely choking out the pet. The sharpened ends placed towards the skin of the neck could cause much more harm if the creature continued to misbehave and struggle.

Waving that collar away as well, Logan closed his eyes and pictured the last item on his short list, only needing a moment before the last collar he had considered conjuring appeared in his hands. A simple black strap with a clunky black box attached to the side dangled from his fingers, the weight of a small remote settling in his back pocket.

With a few adjustments, he hypothesized that this stimulus would ensure the proper results. After all, it just made sense.

Puppies were pets.

Snakes were pets.

It wouldn’t be that far of a reach to assume that similar training techniques would work on both, would it?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Absolutely do _not_ get this off me,” Deceit growled, yellow-gloved hands reaching up to tug at the clasp holding the collar securely around his neck.

Only for him to pull back with a hiss, looking up with a confused expression to see Logan staring straight at him, thumb held poised over a remote.

Deceit still wasn’t sure how exactly the other side had somehow gotten this weirdly shaped choker latched around his neck, but he wasn't too keen on keeping it there, especially not after the small shock that seemed to have come from it.

“You will cease this toxic behavior at once,” the logical side said coldly, and the other just gave him a confused stare.

“What the heck… is this a sh- I mean this is _not_ a shock collar?” Another press of the button, and the snake-faced side slapped his neck, glaring daggers at the other side. “What the fu-”

The settings were changed with a practiced motion, and before the other side could lunge at him, Logan slammed his thumb down on the button, watching with a small twinge of satisfaction as the other fell to the ground, howling in pain as he clawed at his neck. A small buzz filled the air, only stopping once the logical side had released the button.

“You are not good for Thomas,” Logan said calmly, but his arms were beginning to shake as he felt the smallest flame of anger begin to kindle inside him.

“I keep Thomas safe, _asshole_ ,” Deceit spat as he forced himself up onto his elbows. “Lying is necessary. Surely, even you’re smart enough to see that-”

And then his head slammed to the ground as his body stiffened, an even stronger jolt of electricity jolting through his entire body.

Letting go of the button, giving the other side a moment to catch his breath, Logan raised an eyebrow. “What was that you were trying to say?” he asked quietly, trembling voice dangerously low.

“I… I-I’m the o-only o-one he n-needs…” Deceit stuttered before his head was thrown back again in pain.

“One more chance, Deceit,” Logan growled. “Say you’ll never touch Thomas’s mind again. Say you see the error of your ways. Say that you’ll change.” Voice cracking slightly, he held out the remote as his tone raised an octave. “Say you’ll never force my family apart in fear ever again, you bastard.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Deceit grinned, massaging his neck as he stood up. “Oh… is th-that what this is about?” he hissed in amusement, forked tongue flicking out between his teeth as he chuckled. “Look at you, Logic. It’s only been two months since the rest of the cowards realized their place, and already, you’re lonely. You’re growing weak, my friendo.” Picking at the clasp on the collar, his other hand found it’s way up to rub lightly against the red burn marks under the fabric.

“Thomas doesn’t need them, and they now realize that. Took some… persuasion…” At that, he chuckled once again, cracking his knuckles. “But they won’t even leave their rooms to challenge me anymore, will they? Ironically, the smartest one of them all is the last one standing, too stupid to realize his place in the mindscape.” Deceit grabbed Logan’s tie, pulling the logical side closer to him in a dominant gesture. “So why don’t you be the good pup right now, and go lock yourself in your room where you belong. Let me run the mind, keep Thomas safe with my words. After all, we both know, what you don’t know can’t hurt you, and I’m the best at coverups.” His form shifted a couple times, first taking on Logan’s appearance, then cycling through Virgil’s, Roman’s, and finally settling on Patton’s.

“C’mon, Lo…” he whined, tugging at his tie again. “Surely you see it now.” Hand trailing up to cup the other side’s cheek, the non-Patton’s eyes gleamed as he winked at Logan. “I can be what’s best for Thomas.”

There was a small moment of silence, and then a small click as Logan’s thumb found the button again.

“You will not hurt Virgil.”

There was a buzz, and Deceit’s form went ridged, morphing back into his usual snake-faced appearance as his mouth opened in a silent scream. His back arched in pain, tears streaming down his face as he fell backward, hitting the ground with a thud.

“You will not hurt Roman.”

He was clawing at it now, trying in vain to get the collar off, even as the current ran through his entire body, making his eyes roll back in his head.

“You will not hurt Thomas. “

Taking a few steps closer, Logan closed the gap between them, kneeling down to look at the whimpering side as he finally released the button. Roughly grabbing Deceit’s chin, he forced his face to look up at him.

They sat there for a moment, cold brown eyes digging into watering yellow ones, and then Logan let go, standing as he looked down at Deceit with a murderous expression.

“And you will never, _ever_ hurt Patton.”

After all, major behavioral correction required major reinforcement.

Cranking the settings up one last time, clicking a switch into place to finally see the results of his tampering with the device, Logan hesitated only a second before pressing the button. His nose wrinkled at the scent of burning flesh, the crackling sound making him want to cover his ears. But he just stood there, watching the silently screaming, writhing figure on the ground, thumb pressed down on the button until it ached, figure finally falling still.


	18. Day 18: Bones Sticking Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 18th- Bones Sticking Out
> 
> Fandom: Youtube/Markiplier Egos
> 
>  
> 
> _Honestly, the sight just made Bim sick._

Every single one of Mark's ego's had weird tastes, whether in fashion, food, or other things. The King of the Squirrel had his obsession with peanut butter, The Host and Dark had a shared guilty pleasure for chick-flicks, and Yandereiplier's eccentric fashion choices weren't exactly hidden from the others. Honestly, in Bim's eyes, Wilford's fashion sense was a much more horrific crime than any of his own questionable tastes.

There was only one tiny problem with his guilty pleasure.

It was so darn hard to satisfy.

There was finding a supplier, sure, but that could usually be taken care of by merely watching from the sidelines at a bar until a drunk man or woman stumbled onto the dark streets alone, unable to even put up much of a fight if a well-dressed man hypothetically knocked them out and took them back to his room. Or, even easier, working it into the shows that he hosted. Turning it into a daring game where a single slip-up could end in certain death, not only would he get more views and attention, but he'd get the single ingredient he needed for his cravings. He had done that more than enough times, and his tongue flicked over his lips at the memory.

But getting a body was the easiest part. The harder part came afterward, when he had the unmoving figure sprawled out on the tile of his bathroom. Quickly dropping a few of his tools to the floor, he made sure that a few rags and a container of hydrogen peroxide were handy for the aftermath and clean up before taking a seat. After all, these suits were expensive. It just wouldn't do to have them stained to imperfection, even in pursuit of his interesting tastes.

And then came the hard part.

Hissing slightly as he put more pressure on the arm on his meal, he kept his knee positioned just off to the side of the elbow as he prepared to pull, hoping for a clean break. No such luck. Jerking the limb at an angle, he sighed in annoyance as the arm bent mid-forearm, the broken bone breaking through the dark skin, sending a cascade of blood to the floor below it.

Honestly, the sight just made Bim sick. All that delicious meat, all that smoky, tender flavor, only to be disrupted by the splinters of white that were so hard to pick from his meals.

Great. Just great. Not only would he have to have an even bigger mess to clean up, now it wasn't even an appealing portion. The best part was still attached to the rest of the limb; the meat of the biceps on his more tender victims was by far his favorite portion of the arms. Sighing heavily through his nose, Bim just picked up the forearm with bloodstained fingers, raising to his mouth as the tantalizing scent of copper filled his nose.

As he bit through the paper-thin layer of the top skin, smokey flavor of the treasure beneath finally filling his mouth, he examined the rest of his meal before him. Biting back a moan at the delicious flavor, he analyzed the break in the skin, prodding at the radius and ulna bones poking out through the surface with his other hand. That, paired with the femur bone half-sticking out from the meat's leg, as well as a few broken ribs penetrating the skin of the bare stomach (this one had put up a fight, and he had to break it a bit more than usual before getting it into a position where he could take control) only spelled out one thing in the future for him. Bim groaned again, this time not in pleasure, but in annoyance.

This one was going to be absolutely horrendous to clean up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally lost all my motivation for everything, so here's Day 18 that's probably the actual length that these prompts are supposed to be xD Sorry for literally everything I've done thus far


	19. Day 19: Eye Trauma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 19th- Eye Trauma
> 
> Fandom: Youtube RPF/Jacksepticeye Egos
> 
> _After all, I'm 'anti'-septiceye. You know what 'antiseptic' is?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....it's probably October 19th _somewhere_ in the world so I totally finished this on time hahahaha....

Hands reached up to frantically scrabble at his face, but a quick movement from him merely batted the hands to the side, ending with him grabbing the wrists and pinning them to the floor above the man's head.

"O̻̱̦̯͟ͅh,̡̭̫̫͍̝̬ͅ ̦̳͕͓̤̮́c҉̪͔͔͇ͅo̶m̟̮͎̯e̶͙͉̼̥̞͍ ̸̦̠̩̥̱̝̙o̖̲̳͙͠n͘,̺̯̻͖͠ ̠͔̩͝J͕ạ̜̫͍̹c̴̠k҉̰ͅ.̮̘ͅ.̴̩̮̦͇̺͍.̷̟̙"͉̝ he said with a scratchy laugh, moving to straddle the man's hips to keep the struggling body beneath him still. Other hand roughly grabbing the man's chin, he forced baby blue eyes to connect with his own. "Th̨͕̩is͕͖̞̖͉͢ ͖̠̣͜i̮̳ͅͅs̢ ̤̟̻fo̖̟͝r͎ y̦o̴̟̣̖̥͎͇̥u̹̲r̦̞̗̺̭̫̯ ͈͔̰o̬̳̮̘̗̫w͉͕̭̫̖͝n̪͚̪̖̰͟ͅ ̶̫͓g̡̦̖͎̱͍o͈̦̗̠͢ͅo̳̦̹͠ͅd̮͚͓.̖̲̣̙͉Af̝t̛er̠̖̱͓̣͈ ̘͉͈a͍̹̘ll͏̝͉͔͎̠̻, I҉̭̘̱̗̹’̙͎̖̻͉͇͓m̗̜̫ ̘͎̣̦̫̤̯' **a̼̞̞̞n̴̟̠t͏i̤̦̙͙͞** ' ̗̗-s͈̜̯̥̼̼̟e̼͇̬͉̲p̸͇ṱ̗̺̠̻̹͞i͉̭̦͈c̩ ͇̼̤̩͍͇̘͝e͔y͕e̢.̬̪̻͓̖̯ ̩̮̳̻͓̮͢Yo̞̩̹͢u͖̻̻̥̝ ̮̝̫k͙͟n̦̥̺̝͎̜̤o̥̰̫̯w̭̲͔̹͚ w͏ḥ̢͙at̯̬ '̢̖̺̹a̹n̮̜͠t̕ị̡̝s̥͟e̗̰̬p̰̜t͈͎͓̠̼̝͍͞i̡͉̮͍̗̺̭c̵̖'̰̘͚̻ ̠̼̬͍͓̤̼i̦̥̬͝s̶?̼̟͕̫̪͎͇̀"

Ignoring the words the other was screaming at him, Anti just giggled once again, leaning closer over the other until their noses were practically touching. A few stray drops of blood fell from his slashed neck, leaving tiny splatters of red on the Youtuber's chest.

"I̤̱͇͍͉͍ţ̩'͉̖̱̙̖̥͚s̨ ̮a̪͞ ̯̝͉͢d̯͠i̵̯̜s̷i̶̪̭̭ǹ̻̙̣͔ͅfḙ̤̱̼̳̥c̘̦̦͓͔̼t͈̰͕̣̻̭͚a͢n̘̱̝̗t̥̣͈͈̳.͍̦͎ ̖̞̫̠̲͇͍͝I̬̤̮͙̖͉͝t̫ ̧̻̬̱̥̟̺i̠s҉ ̶̭̺p͈͖͖͈͓u͏̭̫ṛe̝̙̭̮͙̲͟.̠̬̣ I̥̲t ̤̟͓i̞̱s̶͚̼̺ t͕̯́h̥̮̳̖̭̥͕è͇̼̪̱ ͈̠͓̲̰̬͡o͙͍̖p̺p̻͓̖o̯si̞t͚̹̻͇͕ę͇ ͙̹͙͕̞̮̳o̲̰̗̻̭̯͕f҉̩̝͍̼ ̛̜i̟̯͉̹̭̯̯͡n̴̬͉f̩̜̫͉̞̀e̪͇̟͓̲͍c̦̥t̵̼̪̪i̛̦̤͔o̢̦u̹s͔̼̞.̧̭" Letting go of the man's chin, he booped him playfully on the nose. "A͈͓͚̺ṋ̨ḏ ̶̰̙͈̪̳͚i̤̤̘̠͚̜̭͞f̖̲̣ͅ ̸̙̬͍͙I'̖̤͇̺̟̀ͅm̫͙͇̗̖̫͡ ̲͈̞̖͠t͝h̟̫̱̻̯̘͢ͅe͞ ͍͖'̣͖̥͔̠͘a͜n̻̝̝̱͖͉͢t̬̫i̭̜s͏̺e̳̯͡p̤̥͇̤͕͇t̟̤i͍͝c̭͇͟'̳̣͈̟͡ o̞͍͎̳͖̤̳n͚e̱̭͢ ̥̮̯̹̹̪ͅi̥͖̬n̘̤̰̠̰̦͙ ̣̫̞̝̭̞ț̻͓͜h̷͉̲̱̩̳i̤̹̻s̭͎͔̩̠̗͎ ̫̙̹̪͖̖l͟i͇͇̟͕t̫̖t̹͔̀l̮̣͉̗̩͚e̺̟̹̰̣̗ ̴̳̞̞̳͔͚r̞͉̙̜͉̖è̤̱̰̪̣̬̼l̥̰͙͔̗̱̤a̯̥̬͖̠̳͉tį͎o̸̟̯͉͎ns͍hi̘͓̞̣p̩̻̞ ̣̺̠͠ͅͅw͕̪̤̩̲̬e̤͙͖ ̤̝͈h͎á̗̳͍̺̦̰ͅv͍̻͔͈͠e̩̫͍̱̼͘.̖.̷.̰ ͇w̻̪̱̗̤̬͓e̴͙̳l̟̪͇̗̥͝l͉,̩ͅ t̳h̩͔̪͔̘͍̺e̜̱̖͈̹͡n̜͚̺̕ͅ ̹̰̤̬y̲̝o̰̙̯̼̩u͇͠'͈̯r͇̪̜̱̣͟e̶̞̟̗͚ ̨̯͙͈th͏̫̭e̢̹ ͎̖̤̮̩͓̼͢u͓͎̺̣͢ń͔͎̱c̼̯̳͠l͉̦̱̥͚e̩a̬͉̝͟n ̻o̱̹̣͈n̯̱̻̲͟ͅẹ,̬̳̹͖̲̭̼̀ ̘a͔͠ͅr̟͉͎͔̬̥̜͢e̟̘̣̻͕n͎'̠͔̲͞t̺͈͈̫͍̮ ̷̭͍yo҉͎̹̠u͎̠̲?̩͔̗̜̞̝̪"

He waved his free hand, and a familiar dagger appeared in his grip. "H̢̳͈̼o͍̖̞̯̜ͅń̼̤̫̤͙̥̪e̗̱̠̦̦̭̙s̸̩͎͓t͔̜̖̤̣l̛̘̤̩̟̖̺y̧̯̻,̘͉̼ ͕͓̹͙̬Ja̖̝̘͚̜ͅck̖̹͚͉͠i͎͉̭͇̬̕e͠,͓ ̙̥̠̱̠̝I͖̝̪̯̘̤͔’͓̫̯͕̮͡m͏̝̖̝̭̟̥̝ ̷̼̮̩̜̳̫̺j҉̭͕̩̭͉us̤̙̭̘͎t͈͕̙̺̞ ͖̕h̪̯̜͇̰e̗l͏̦̜͚͍̙͉̝p҉̻̜̰i͎͇̼͞n̴̘͔͈͖̯͔g͙͚ ̙̩͉̘̲̙̼y̸̰̯͓̹͍̙a̖̣̜̠͘ͅͅ ͏̘͖̝̝̬o̪͔̪̜̘u̢̘t̨̲͓ ̘̞͎͕͖̜͠b͎e̺͙͇͔f̙̠̺͍͍o͏͎̝̫͉̖r̙̗̼̖̙ẹ̵̥̪̣ ̳̺̬̖̭͖t̰h̫e̟͎̦̩ ͎͚̣̺͙̣̕ị͎̯͘n̷̳̣̤f̱̱̳͘e̞͙c̵t̙̫͎̲͔̯ͅi͈o̡̼̣͓̣̯n ͓s͙̩̺̝p̯̼̹̩͍̦̮r̭̖̜̖͟e͔̘̦a̫͓̖͖̩̱̱ds͍̟̟͉̩.̵̙̳͕̰̗̫͔ I̮̝̜̙̥t̡͔̗'͔̤͙̼ͅs͓͚̗̟̜̟̝ ̴͉̥̗̳̟J͏̬̖̻̺a̟̘͔̕c̗̖̪͘k͝s̷̮͉e̵̹̝p͖̕ṯ͕͔̞̤͎͞ic̩͎̪͓͈ͅ'e͕̙̫̩͖͙͙y̵̠̰ḛ̢̙̘̰̟̠ͅ,͓͍̰̩̹͞'̧̬̱͓̜ ̨̹͈̟̲̥͎̻r̹̮͎͍i̸͚͈gh̲͇̩̰̠̭͢t͈?̯ ̱̪T҉h͏͍̯ͅe͖͓̫̰̖n̵͚̤̬͈͔ͅ ͓͈I͈̤̖̦̻̫͡ ̶̫̘̭g͍̬͈ù͎̪̩̫̯͙ͅḙ͔̲̰̲s͙͓̯̱̦s̪̟̩̰̳ ͈͉̲͟ͅt͔̣̠͔͕h͕̺̺͙̞̻̲a̧̫̪̬t͈̼͓̜̘̺͕͢'̺͉̱͎ͅs̩ ̩̱̖̫̱͝w̥͎̲̱̬͞h̝̰͚̮͢e͞r̮̞e̩̝̰ ̻̬̱͓͝I'̻̼l̟̣͓l͓̩̬͇͚̼ ͙̣̩b̺͔̫͇̠͕̫e̘̕g̩̬̼͈i͈͕͔̰̰n̴̺̼̖ ̶̮̠m̥y͕̞͖̬ d̪ì̦̜ṣ̷͍i̭̙͉̲̟̻n̝̩̫̙̝f̱̯̪̻e̤̯̪̩̖c̢̞̲̰t̢̬̥̤̻̫͎i͍̩̱͙͓ń̥̖̝̻̼͎ͅg̴̺̰̝̫̳̜̜.̜͉̭̭ͅ"

And then the dagger was buried to the hilt in his eye, leaving the other screaming his throat raw as the one above him merely smiled. Digging it around playfully for a few seconds, he pulled it out with a slow movement, relishing how the gelatinous organ seemed to turn into a bloody, liquidated mess dripping from the other's eye socket.

"I̭̩̘ś̭͓͔̺̣n̵'̬̗̼͙̭̲͞t̞͚͔̠ ̞͓t̷͓͉̦ͅh͎̥͍̲̻̭ạ̯͙̜ṱ͈͉͇ ̗͇̙͇͝j̣̹̦u̙̯͔͔͙͕st̲̗ ͇̯̣̤̻͉s̷̠͖o̤ ̰̗̙̩̯m͖̙̣ư̪̝̦̝c͕̯͜h̲̙̫ ͉̺̬͍͢b̼͉͕e͔̱̲͖̦̠t͙̻̱̱͍͡t͏̺̩̲e̜̻͙̰r̹̱̱̜̱̺ͅ?̶" he said, glitching voice filled with excitement. Ignoring the nosies the other was making, he merely let the tip of his blade drag across the other's face, lightly circling the remaining optic. "D̘͖̝o͓̣͎̲ͅn'̛̰̦̝̻̰̜t͕̖̟ ̦̥̪̭̗̤͎w͎͉̙̗̙o̫̜̬̺̗r̫͍ṟ͔̥͇̼̙̀ͅy̲̲̖̕,̯̖̪̱̠͍ ̖̩͎͍̭J̣̭̖̹̳͈͡a͚̱̼̳̺̻c͖̟̹͚͝k̪̪͉̘̫̜̜͡i̥̜̩͈̤e͈͉ ̟̤b͢o͟y̹͓̰̯̗͢.̴̰ .̡̩̳W҉͓̠e͍̦̤͔͙̙̫͢'̮̳͙̺̻̫͠r̞͎̩e҉͈͔͚ ̲̻̣̬͚f̼̟̲a̷͇̖̦r̟͈͎͘ ̩͈̘͙͉͍ͅf͎̲̦̜̠͎͘r̗̮̞ơ͉͖̝̩͖̥̳m̛̺͙ ̘͇̫̦̦͠d̢̺̰̩̦͔o̶̬͉̠͎n̵ẹ.҉͎̱͈͍̩


	20. Day 20: Inner Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 20th- Inner Beauty
> 
> Fandom: Youtube/Markiplier Egos
> 
>  
> 
> _Dr. Iplier just wants to see his closest friends at their best._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo incredibly rusheddddddddddd but I finished it ;3

Strangely enough, Wilford was the one who brought it up so eminently one day.

“People focus too much on outer beauty,” he had said, appearing suddenly during one of the Iplier ego’s ‘voluntary’ ‘family’ dinners. Leaning against the doorway, he had waved a hand in the air. “But that’s so overrated. Why, one could be the most devilishly handsome man alive, frame his friend for his murder, and still get away with it because of his physical attractiveness.” Sighing, he lazily fiddled with the safety on his revolver.

Dark had glanced up from the papers The Host was showing him, barely looking him over before responding, “Please don’t get that on the carpet.”

The King of the Squirrels had already left the room, going to who knows where at the first sign of the obviously riled up and colorfully-stained ego.

Bim Trimmer had taken one look at the blood staining Wilford’s shirt, then abruptly pushed back from the table, chair legs grating on the floor with a loud scratch from the force. “I’m… uh, suddenly... hungry. I need to go to my room,” he said, a strange look on his face.

Yandereiplier had looked up from where they were picking at their food. “We’re having dinner right now, Bim. How is going to your room going to be any different from staying here?” The suited ego merely pushed past him, rushing off to the hallway where their rooms were located. Shrugging nonchalantly, the schoolgirl grabbed the absent ego’s plate, dumping the contents onto their own.

But Dr. Iplier’s eyes were focused on only one thing as the pink mustached man continued his rant about the importance of ‘inner beauty’ over 'outer beauty.' As his blood-soaked hands flew about in the air, gestures enunciating every word, he found his eyes caught on the splatters of red being flung into the air, drips of the liquid running down to the floor.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Most everyone assumed that he wasn’t a ‘real’ doctor. Just a man posing as one, really. Everyone seemed to forget that he had actual doctoral experience; enjoyed his job, even. He wasn’t an ‘actor’ like the ‘Markiplier TV’ videos had sort of portrayed him. He was more than just a handsome face in a flattering lab coat.

The human body was something he avidly enjoyed studying. It was a beautiful thing to look at, to see how it worked, to understand why it worked, how a few messy tubes, some structure, and a mass of muscle to control it formed the human beings around him.

Really, he did have to give some credit to the mustached maniac for this sudden realization, so it was only fitting that Wilford got to participate in this bonding session first. After all, the two weren’t necessarily close, but they were two different egos of the same host. Dr. Iplier figured it was far past time they got to know each other. Up close and personal.

Inside and out.

He was long past the first incision, now, having had to change his latex gloves multiple times to keep the delicate instruments from slipping in his blood-stained fingers. Of course, this was taking a bit longer than expected. After all, he did have to be careful with the now unconcious man. While humans were definitely a beauty, they were certainly fragile, and Dr. Iplier didn’t want to break anything.

He just wanted to enjoy.

Stitching up the last of the cut along the forearm, the doctor turned to the part he was most looking forward to. The inner working around the thoracic vertebrae was absolutely fascinating to observe.

After all, Wilford had been talking about how inner beauty was subjective, changing from each person to the next. So who was to tell him he couldn't enjoy this?

He just wants to see his closest friends at their best.


	21. Day 21- Ripped Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 21st- Ripped Apart
> 
> Fandom: Youtube/Markiplier Ego/'Who Killed Markiplier?'
> 
> _So yes, the Colonel could have his part. Mark would just be certain that he would get his as well._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *alternate universe of the canon 'Who Killed Markiplier' timeline*

Mark knew about Celine and the Colonel.

He wasn’t blind, and god knows he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t deaf, either, and the whispered conversations that his dear friend had with his wife in the darkest corners of his manor weren’t secrets to his ears.

It wasn’t as if he had jumped to this decision rashly. He had spent more than a few days when Celine was on vacation with a ‘friend,’ screaming her name into pillows, throwing vases at pedestals he imagined to be her, wearing his voice down to a raspy whisper with shouts of ungrateful sluts and whorish urges, cursing the names of two close people whom he both loved with all of his heart.

And then she was home, and he was left to do what he did best. Flowery words, deep and loving kisses on pale, soft skin and pink, flushed lips. Lips and skin that _he_ had touched, that _he_ had kissed. Lavish parties, expensive jewelry, all given with a charming smile as he merely played the part he was expected to, an actor performing for the woman who no longer belonged to him, but to a dear friend he thought he could trust.

And maybe… maybe it was a touch of madness. Maybe it was the irrationality of a scorned husband. Or maybe…

It just made sense.

The Colonel wanted Celine so badly? So be it. He wasn’t so unworthy of a gentleman to not realize when a prize he thought he had won long ago no longer belonged to him completely. Mark would allow his wife to leave him for the mustachioed man if she so chose it. After all, one would have to be completely cruel to deny the one they loved their happiness.

~~Then again, one would also have to be so cruel as to stab their loving husband, their closest friend, in the back in such a heart-twisting way.~~

The Colonel could have Celine. Or at least, the part of her heart that belonged to him. For the woman could not have been so cruel as to give the entirety of her heart to the other man? She had once loved him, or at least she had said she had…

She _had_ loved him. If he didn’t believe that, then there was no point to it all, and he so desperately wanted there to be a point.

So yes, the Colonel could have his part. Mark would just be certain that he would get his as well.

It had been simple to set the date. While he pretended to be infatuated with his broiled chicken and potatoes, he could sense the two sitting across from him shared a seemingly secret smile. He ignored the nudges under the tablecloth for a sip of wine, pointedly looking out the window at the darkening gardens and commenting on the weather as Celine giggled and blushed in a way she hadn’t around him in years.

He let them have their moment alone in the ballroom, both making up excuses to leave the table in an effort to throw off suspicion. Even in the shadows of the curtains, he made a point to avert his eyes, giving them their secret meeting of flighting glances, stolen kisses and quick touches.

However, he couldn’t give their words privacy from his place in the shadows. So when their whispers changed from sweet nothings and loving promises to more somber tones and plans, he was well aware that his suspicions had been right. They had chosen tonight to leave. He hadn’t been blind to the packed suitcase tucked behind a couch in the sitting room, but he made a point to ignore the light glinting off the leather cover when they had been talking earlier.

And so, he knew he had to make it quick. There was no time for flowery poetry lamenting his loss for her, for bittersweet eloquence that could fully send across the emotions he now felt in her whorish presence. There was no time at all for anything than a few hissed words, and then him taking his part.

He left the Colonel’s half on the manor’s back stairs, where the two were to meet at midnight. One couldn’t say he wasn’t a gentleman through and through; he had given the slightly bigger part to his friend. After all, _he_ must own the larger portion if she was so willing to leave him.

Mark kept his part on her chair in their room, taking a seat next to her as he stared ahead into the empty fireplace. Her already cold hand slid perfectly into his own blood-stained one, just as it always had. One of the many signs he had thought made them perfect for each other.

Sleep was an illusive thought at that point, and so he just sat, tapping the floor slightly with one foot, whispering words he wished he would have spoken earlier to the quiet woman sprawled onto the chair next to him. He considered getting up to light the fire; after all, brisk air and a soaked shirt weren't a good mix and he was shivering quite a bit, but he couldn't find the motivation to do so. And so he just sat, letting his shirt dry as the night progressed, coppery scent fading away to a background smell as he grew used to it.

He merely smiled as he heard a choked cry later that night, and then the splattering sound of vomit through the open windows overlooking the back of the manor. Her name was whispered over and over again, building up into a scream of pure madness.

Gripping the smaller, lifeless hand in his own just a little bit tighter, he looked over at the glassy eyes of his beloved wife sitting next to him, staring straight ahead in empty horror.

Well… the glassy eye, singular. After all, the Colonel had his share.

Eyes roaming the figure next to him, he winced as the moonlight illuminated what a poor job he had done.

He had tried to make the dividing line as even as possible, but it was so hard what with the squirming. The skin was jagged where it was cut, intestines messily spilling out the side where he had snapped ribs in half, sawing through stomach lining and organs, ripping her apart between the two she belonged to. Choosing to let himself keep even half the heart was selfish, and he knew it, but he was sure that his dearest friend wouldn’t mind.

After all, it was a reasonable compromise. Both men loved her.

All Mark had done was make sure they had equal shares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess you could say Celine was _torn_ between her two lovers amiright????? *ba dum ch*
> 
> I'm... actually surprised at how this turned out? Not necessarily the direction I had in mind when starting it, but I'm... surprisingly proud at how decent this is?


	22. Day 22- Experiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 22th- Experiment
> 
> Fandom: Sanders Sides
> 
> _Hypothesis: If Logic were to take complete control over Thomas’s decision making, then Thomas would be more productive in nearly every aspect of his life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Low-key hate this with my entire being, so I'm just posting it cuz it's written and I want to at least attempt something for every day. Feel free to skip; it's that bad. 
> 
> Hope y'all's days are going well!

_“We’ve already learned that Thomas listening to me too much can be a problem. Same with Roman. Probably even Logan!”_

Even though the words had been spoken months ago, they still bounced around in his skull, Patton’s voice echoing in his ears.

...Would it really be such a big problem if Thomas listened to Logan, his _logic_ , too much?

That concept didn’t make much sense.

Sure, in the Growing Up video, his proposed plan for Thomas’s future had led to his host being unhappy with his life. But he had been forced to team up with Roman on that one, and he was sure the fanciful Side’s stupidity had leaked into his words and, pardon his pun,  _royally_ screwed it up.

And if he ignored that, as well as his _infinitesimal_ mistake, every other time he had contributed his thoughts and ideas had ended well. Especially in the nostalgia videos where, ironically enough, him not being there had convinced the others he knew what he was talking about even more than when he was there. ~~That hadn’t stung at all.~~

So why would logic taking control cause problems, really?

He had never really had a chance to prove that listening to himself too much could cause an issue. After all, he hadn’t ever gotten ‘his’ video, had he? Patton and Virgil had both gotten their one-on-one episodes when the series had first started. And while Roman hadn’t necessarily gotten that same ‘alone time,’ he had been given complete control in the originality video, both over the other Sides and the situations the others had been thrown into. That was as good as giving him the spotlight he so desperately craved.

But Logan...

_“Unbelievable! This was totally supposed to be my video.”_

_“Get over it, you’re the least popular character and you know it.”_

He never had gotten that chance.

Which had led to this experimentation. It totally wasn’t out of mere curiosity and a want to prove the others wrong in their opinion of him; it was out of a complete and genuine concern for his host.

  * _Question: If Logic were to have complete reign over the host’s [Thomas Sanders] mindscape, would that negatively or positively affect the host’s social/personal status, decision making, income, overall happiness, etc.?_



After all, he was _Logic_. Approaching things in a well thought-out manner, with deliberation and objectiveness… how could that possibly cause a ‘problem?’

  * _Hypothesis: If Logic were to take complete control over Thomas’s decision making, then Thomas would be more productive in nearly every aspect of his life._



He would certainly give back control once he was finished.

  * _Procedure:_ _Step 1..._



It would be fairly simple to begin. All he would have to do was cut off the ties the others had to Thomas temporarily, leaving him as the sole Side holding sway over the mindscape. Virgil had done it nearly a year ago. How hard could it be for the others to do the same?

Logan would only take a few days, maybe a week, to let his experiment run its course. That would offer enough time for him to truly see any definitive results, and continue appropriately as his hypothesis was proven right or wrong.

Simple.

* * *

It wasn't as simple as it could be. As it _should_ be. The experiment wasn't progressing as planned, and it didn’t take a genius to see what was wrong.

They refused to duck out.

The dark Sides had seemed indifferent at first, but it had been simple to lock them in their rooms. After all, he was a main Side. Thomas was a relatively good person, and so the darker parts of himself held less power than him.

But for the 'good' parts of Thomas...

It wasn't that easy to merely 'lock them in their rooms.'

It honestly just became grating, after a while. Even as he calmly explained what he was trying to do, they all seemed intent on impeding his experiment.

They were such unreliable variables, variables he hadn't planned for. It was so hard to gather data when he kept having to take time away from his observations to keep them quiet. And they kept affecting Thomas, trying to rise up in his consciousness and warn him. Which would completely defeat the purpose, as the experiment would thus be ruined by the subject's knowledge of it.

And so, he had to add another step in his procedure. Unwanted, sure. Unpleasant, definitely. But one sometimes had to get messy to get to the truth.

* * *

Scrubbing at his shirt for a second longer, Logan offhandedly noted the pull of Thomas attempting to summon him. Pulling the black polo out of the tinted water, he watched dirty red rivulets of water stream from the fabric for a second before willing it dry.

Sure, it would’ve been easier to simply conjure up a new outfit instead of scrubbing out the stains on his old one, but he still lacked the skill to conjure anything nearly as comfy as anything Roman could, and now it would be a while before he could ask the other for assistance. Besides, his entire outfit was darkly colored; it’s not like the darker patches were going to show up on camera anyway. Slipping his tie around his neck, tying it with practiced and precise movements, he sunk out of the mindscape, making a mental note to clean up the mess later when he returned.

Rising up in Thomas's living room, he greeted his host with a simple "Salutations" and an adjustment of his tie.

"Logan, so good to see you," Thomas said with a small smile. "Alright, so ever since last night, I've..." His voice trailed off, nose wrinkling slightly. “What’s that smell? Did you, like, bathe yourself in bleach or something?” he asked jokingly.

Shifting uncomfortably, Logan adjusted his glasses. “That’s unimportant. What can I do for you, Thomas?”

“...Alright. Well, here’s the thing. Ever since last night, I’ve been feeling… weird…”

Logan merely smiled as Thomas began to explain the weird emptiness he had been feeling all day, nodding when necessary and pretending to be invested in what he was saying even as he categorized little details in his mind to write down and analyze later. Already, his host seemed less emotionally driven, focusing more on the facts of the manner, and motioning less with his hands as his usual dramatics seemed to have momentarily left him. He also didn’t seem to be overly worried about the situation, just... confused. That last one gave him a sense of momentary relief; he hadn’t quite been sure if he had gotten rid of that little problem completely.

“Maybe I should call in the others,” his host mused, pulling the other out of his observations.

Logan quickly jerked forward, hand outstretched. “Uh, Thomas!” he said quickly. “Maybe that’s not such a good idea… They’re a little... preoccupied at the moment…”

"Well, isn't it kind of important that every one of my Sides is here, especially considering my emotions?" Thomas questioned, hand outstretched as if about to summon one of the others. "After all, you've said before, emotions aren't really... your thing, y'know?"

"Thomas, now is not the best time to-"

The logical side was cut off by his host calling out to the others. "Patton?" he tried, looking expectantly off to his left.

Nothing happened.

"Virgil...?" He tried once again, ignoring the other's repeated suggestion of stopping. "Logan, why aren't they answering?" he asked, and the logical side was disappointed to hear a tinge of fear in the other's voice. Maybe the anxious side wasn't as out of the way as he had hoped.

"That's unimportant," he replied calmly. "I'm the only one available right now, and honestly, the only one you need. Continue explaining how you are feeling, in more detail, please."

"Patton!" Thomas tried calling once again, voice sounding just a little more frantic. "Uh... Roman? Virgil?" He waiting a moment for the familiar facets to pop up in their places, but nothing happened. "...Dad guy? Morality? Princey? Anxiety?" Trying more and more variations of what he had referred to the others as throughout his time knowing them, his tone grew more and more upset as nobody else appeared. "...Deciet?"

"Thomas, please," Logan tried once again, adjusting his glasses. "It is fruitless. If they don't consciously accept your summoning, then it's unlikely they'll appear. You'd need an incredibly hard pull on them to force them to-"

There was a pop, and a familiar figure appeared on the staircase, collapsed in a pitiful heap of matted hair and bloodstained clothing.

"V...V-Virge?" Thomas stuttered, even as Logan stepped between the two, hand held out in a downwards pushing motion.

The figure didn't disapear.

By the window, another figure appeared, leaning against the wall, staring ahead with a lifeless expression. Another figure draped in black was awkwardly flung over his lap. A familiar white-clothed figure slumped against the adjacent wall, more than the red of his sash staining his clothes.

Logan just stood there, blankly staring ahead in horror as his host rushed to the other Side's sides.

The experiment was ruined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mean, he threw a laptop at Thomas just to see if his ‘natural defensive reflexes’ still worked, so getting rid of everyone temporarily just to prove the others wrong wouldn’t be too out of character… right? Honestly idk what I'm doing here but.. yeah. Heck.


	23. Day 23- Gorge it Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 23rd- Gorge it Out
> 
> Fandom: Youtube/Markiplier Egos/'Who Killed Markiplier?'
> 
> _It was a simple, but effective way to deal with any problem._

It was a simple, but effective way to deal with any problem Wilford might face throughout his day. Can’t deal with that stupidly smug smile of one of your coworkers? Gorge it out. Significant other cheats on you? Gorge ‘em out of your life. Annoying coffee shop owner tried to kick you out because ‘sir, we don’t allow guns here’ and ‘oh my- someone call 911- you can’t just shoot someone because they took your seat’?

Gorge him out of existence.

He thought he might write a book about it. 'Stress Relief and Problem-Solving for Dummies,' or something. It would probably be a big hit.

 

* * *

  
He didn’t know why it was hurting him, but it really was. The reason answering 'why' was tickling at the back of his mind, but it was just fuzzy enough that he couldn’t quite grasp it.

The figure in the mirror had stopped trying to get his attention. That was where he guessed it had started.

The mirror had shown up randomly in the commons one day. Not that that in itself was strange; Wilford was used to the house randomly changing, adding a room here, a bookshelf there, a staircase leading to a pool one day leading to a library. He wasn't sure if it was just his perception or the actual house that was changing, but time and perception weren't set in stone anyway, so he just shrugged it off.

What was strange was Dark's reaction to it, as well as it's reaction to Dark. And, for some reason, to Wilford. Even the Jims seemed to rile it up every now and again, and nobody knew how it was connected.

It, the figure behind the cracked glass, used to bang soundlessly on the glass, wispy shape gesturing wildly at him from behind the barrier keeping them apart. Only mere moments after The Host had commented on it, Dark had somehow moved it to a forgotten hallway in some corner of the house, so Wilford didn't have to worry about it very often. When he did, though, the figure was always trying to communicate with him, which just left him feeling... _weird_ inside.

But he had ended up in that hallway again that day, for some reason, and when he had passed by it this time, the surface was strangely still. The androgynous figure merely looked at him sluggishly from where it was curled up on the floor of the endless space behind it, looking broken in the shattered surface of the mirror.

It had made his heart twinge, and he had no clue why.

  
And then he had been at breakfast, listening to their leader go on yet another rant about 'taking control' and whatnot.

“Why should we stand back, letting this buffoon keep this control over us?” Dark continued, jerking his neck to the side as his aura bled into the air around him. Brushing away a tentrail of red that was leeching onto his shoulder, Wilford tried not to yawn as the darker one continued.

“Life is for the living; it's ours to choose,” he continued in his slow, deliberate way of speaking. “And if we are to choose, then why are we staying here, in this endless sluggishness of… Wilford, are you alright?”

Everyone’s heads turned towards the pink mustached man, who’s martini he had ended up having for breakfast for no other reason than that he was an adult and could have whatever he damn wanted for breakfast, had slipped from his fingers and shattered on the floor, eyes staring blankly ahead as if somewhere entirely different.

Jerking back into the present, he looked around in confusion at everyone’s curious eyes. “What’s the matter?” he asked in confusion, going to sip at his drink only to find his hand empty. Shrugging slightly, because honestly his mind was a bit more jumbled than usual this morning and he couldn’t keep track of something as small as that martini, he waited for someone to explain why everyone was staring at him.

“You just… zoned out for a second there, I guess,” Dr. Iplier said with a dismissive wave of his hand as if to say ‘typical Wilford,’ turning back towards Dark in preparation for the continuation of the undoubtedly 10-minutes-more-or-longer monologue that was sure to be given.

“Are you alright, Will?” Dark only repeated, even as everyone turned their attention away from the man now fiddling with the safety of his revolver.

“Fit as a fiddle,” was the other man’s reply as he raised his arm to let a bullet fire into the ceiling, mustache twitching in a smile as the younger egos flinched, as well as at Bim’s exasperated groan of ‘not again, Wilford, we just had them redone.’

“Alright, old friend, if you say so,” Dark replied with an uncharacteristically gentle undertone, before turning back to the others and continuing what he was saying.

He didn’t know why those almost familiar words just dug deeper into him, making it hurt a little bit more.

 

* * *

 

He didn’t know why seeing the crystal ball in the corner of Dark’s room made him feel this way. Wilford didn’t even know why the foreboding entity had the item, shoved in a dusty box along with a familiar looking black ribbon with faded white words scrawled on it and a wallet with an almost disturbing amount of pictures of a man with a different person in each one.

No, he didn’t know why those random, ~~familiar?,~~ items were stowed in Dark’s room, or why it felt like a dagger to his heart; all he knew was that he wanted it to stop. Gasping lightly for air, his fist was pressed tightly to his chest as if the pressure would stop the painful sensation tearing through his heart.

He didn’t even take a moment to unbutton his shirt. His hands moved as if of their own accord, clawing at his chest, tearing through the pale yellow fabric to leave scratches in the pale skin beneath as his eyes darted around the room for something, anything, to stop this pain.

After all, it was a simple, but effective way to deal with any problem. Friend betrays you, leaving you alone in a house of madness with nobody to help you escape?

Gorge those memories out.

A lover and dear companion whom you can barely remember popping into your mind only to ridicule you about how much you’ve lost?

Gorge them out.

Heart won’t stop hurting over something that had happened years ago?

His fingers carefully wrapped around the handle of the knife on the dresser (he knew Dark would have one somewhere), and with one swift movement, he stabbed the blade deep into his chest. In comparison to the pressure in his heart, the physical pain was a welcome distraction. He had no time for neat, pretty lines, not this time. Pulling the blade in a rough circle on his chest, he tugged the knife back out, and then began frantically scrabbling at the now-mangled skin again.

_Gorge it out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welp this was rushed, but I don't hate it, so...?
> 
> and whoop whoop this was just gonna be Wilford removing other people from his life but then I touched it and turned it angsty i'm sorry


	24. Day 24: Amputation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 24th- Amputation
> 
> Fandom: Youtube/Jackepticeye Egos
> 
>  
> 
> _Chase just needs Stacy to rely on him as much as he relies on her._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing in character?? hahaha never heard of it

The screams echoed around the dimly lit white tile of the room, seeming to only amplify in sound as they rebounded on themselves over and over again.

"Y'know a knife's not really my thing, honey," the man remarked as he once again dug in the instrument, groaning in exertion even as the figure strapped to the operation table bucked upwards, cracked screams from a scratchy throat once again filling the operation room. "But my gun couldn't really get this job done properly, could it? Hell, I'd love to _finally_ get one thing done right for you."

Finally, after a bit more wiggling, he finally got into a grove. Expertly flicking the bloodstained instrument to the stainless steel table with a clatter, his slender fingers trailed over his options before settling on the large bone saw near the end of the row. One quick wiggle, and then the jagged blade was resting in the groove, moving back and forth in jerky motions as a horrific screech of bone on blade sounded in the room, overpowering even the screams and sobs.

"Just... just another second, sweetheart," the man said through gritted teeth as he pulled the saw back towards himself. Taking only a moment to brush the matted green hair from his eyes, he straightened his hat, then put all of his weight on the handle of the saw.

A loud crack, a wet thunk, and a splattering sound, accompanied by only shocked whimpering as the denim-clothed leg fell to the floor, rolling across the polished tile a few inches before stopping to leak out the red fluid it contained.

"And there it is," the man said quietly, panting slightly as he raised an arm to wipe at his sweat-soaked forehead with his wrist. Looking down at the sobbing woman strapped to the table below him, he grinned sheepishly, looking all like the playful fatherly part he always wanted to play, the illusion only broken by the streak of red left on his forehead from his wrist.

"Y'know, that's all I've ever really wanted," he said with a chuckle, raising the saw in one hand. Her tear-filled eyes followed the shining blade fearfully, mouth slightly open as choked words tried to force their way out. "To be allowed the privilege of providing for you..." Wiping the bloodied blade quickly on her shirt, leaving a smear of her own blood in its wake, he continued as he let it fall back to the instrument's table with a clatter. "But you just couldn't let me, could you? It was never enough for you. My best, me trying my absolute best for you and the kids, was never enough, and so you never even let me try without pushing me away."

Grabbing the bandages lying in a neat pile beside the other bloodied instruments he had used thus far, he walked around to the other side of the table before beginning to attempt to bandage the bleeding stump. "All I’ve ever wanted is to care for you, Stacy. To carry you where you want to go in life. And now..." he trailed off quietly, a dangerous glint in his eyes as he tightened the white-turning-red bandages under his fingers. "...Now you’ll be forced to let me. No complaints, no put-downs and insults, just meek acceptance because nobody, not even that stupid boyfriend of yours, that motherfu-"

He took a sharp breath, as if trying to calm himself down, and then continued in a lower, quieter voice. "I love you, Stace. I know you said it was final, that the divorce is finalized at this point, but... let's face it, he's not going to want you. Not like this. Not in the way I still do, even with you, all laid out for me, broken and bloodied." Tying off the ends of the messily bandaged stump, he returned back to the other side of the table. Fingers dancing over the sharp tips of the scalpels all at his fingertips, he chose a new, clean one, holding it up to the light to examine it. "And, if me literally being your legs isn't enough... maybe you could let me be your arms as well." A playful gash on the arm, a light gasp and a tear-choked cry from the woman. "...Or maybe I could even try something special with that pretty little mouth of yours. I've gotten pretty good at interpreting for Jamie if needs be, and I'm sure someone as smart as you could pick up sign pretty quick."

Her mouth slammed shut so fast that her lip split, a small trail of blood dripping from the corner of her mouth and sliding off her cheek to join the shallow pool of blood forming on the table before her. "Good choice, honey," Chase said with a wink, spinning the between his fingers. "Now, let's get back to work, shall we? We still got one more leg to go, after all, and I want to have this done in time to pick the kiddos up from soccer practice. Haven't seen them in... months... Maybe we should go pick up some ice cream first to celebrate? Watch a movie after? Probably wouldn't be best to do any strenuous activity with you after this, anyway."

And then blade met flesh, and the room was filled with the choked screams of pain once more.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hnnnnnnnnn this wasn't written in 5 minutes haha nOpe


	25. Day 25- Dental

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 25- Dental
> 
> Fandom: Youtube/Markiplier Egos
> 
> _There wasn't much he could fix, but the things that he could... well, he'd try his damnedest to get those right._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Dark just wants to have a gosh darn beautification session and the Ipliers just can't stop having problems and life-threatening crisises.

Dark had a broken body.

It wasn't new information to him or anything like that. No, he had known that from the first moment 'Darkiplier' as an entity had formed. The constant ache in his entire body, the snapped or somehow broken neck always paining him, skin that was way too sallow to be healthy...

Yes, his body was broken, and he just had to accept that. And he really had, for the most part.

But, still, there were a few things he could do that made him feel less broken and more like he did have some semblance of control of the vessel he piloted. 

For one, he had scheduled a weekly appointment with Dr. Iplier to help keep his neck from getting any worse. He wouldn't let the other examine it too closely, so neither quite knew what was wrong, but simple chiropractic treatments worked miracles on the pressure that built up. Besides, The Host was there to get his bandages changed more often than not, and so he had about half an hour to kill with decent company. There were worse ways to spend his time, he supposed.

He also made sure to spend as much time as he could in the sun. It didn't seem to be doing much to help his ever-paling skin, but it didn't seem to hurt him either, and it gave him the chance to keep tabs on The King of the Squirrels. So, he guessed _that_ wasn't a complete waste of his time either.

And then... there were his teeth. They were white, mostly straight, and even he had to admit, on the rare times he did smile, it wasn't the worst thing about him. But still, they were just a tad... off. The molars constantly grated against the soft flesh of his inner cheek, filling his mouth with the coppery taste of blood more often than not. And the front two were just the slightest bit crooked, the ones below following the same pattern.

It really wasn't a big deal; nobody seemed to notice or care, and in comparison with the rest of his body, a few crooked teeth were the least of his problems.

But... there wasn't much he could fix in this broken body of his. So when he found things that he could... well, he'd try his damnedest to get those right.

Which had led him to this situation, standing in front of the floor length mirror in his room, one hand pulling his upper lip to the side, other hand attempting to straighten his right canine with a pair of black pliers.

Wilford had gifted the pliers to him a couple years back during a 'completely consensual mandatory Iplier household Christmas celebration' gift exchange. He had lightly held the sloppily painted black pliers in one hand after carefully unwrapping them, Wilford doubling over in laughter at the sight. He had then managed to breathe out ' _Dark_... _pliers_ ' between guffaws of laughter before going off to play with the pistol Yandereiplier had gifted him. (The next gift exchange had led Dark to establish a few rules about what could and could not be given as a present, any type of weapon being the first item on the list. He really didn't want a repeat of the previous year's 'incident,' as he had been left to clean up the mess.)

His upper lip was already bleeding, him having clamped down too quickly when messing with his lateral incisors and gashing the already chapped skin in the process. The liquid had seeped into his open mouth, mixing with the liquids bubbling up from his nearly disconnected premolar. The red-tinged tooth was only held in his mouth by a thin string of bleeding gum, and he had decided to leave it for now in fear of messing anything up too permanently.

Gripping his central incisor once again in the chipped head of the pliers, he grunted slightly as he slowly applied pressure, just willing the now-cracked tooth to move just a few millimeters more to the center.

The tooth did no such thing, merely collapsing in on itself under the pressure, the crackling sound of bone breathing making Dark wince. Letting out a gasp of disappointment and pain as blood began leaking through this new wound, he relaxed his grip on the pliers, pulling them away carefully before poking at the tooth with his index finger.

A piece of white immediately chipped away at the touch, leaving an extremely fragile and completely disfigured tooth remaining in his mouth.

His nose wrinkled in disgust and he prodded at the tooth one last time before moving to the canine he still hadn't touched.

He was just making some progress when the door suddenly slammed open, leaving Dark to jerk back at the noise and, as a result, tug a bit too harshly on the tooth he was trying to fix.

"What- ah..." he hissed quietly as his tongue instinctively flitted over the now empty cavity in his gums. "...What are you- ah-" Putting a hand to his mouth, it came away red. His tongue darted across his teeth, instantly being flooded with a coppery taste. The central incisor finally broke down under the pressure of his closing his mouth and, as he swallowed, he felt chips of tooth and bits of gum being carried down his throat with his saliva. "What do you need?" he finally choked out, wiping the blood and saliva covered tips of the tool in his hand on his slacks.

Putting a hand to his forehead, the other ego discretely shoved an open wire back under the surface of his skin, glitching out for a second before turning his shaded eyes back towards the other. Bing waved in greeting, grinned dopily with a slightly bent and mangled arm. "Uh, suh dude? You gotta come out to the main area, like, ASAP. Google is being an-" His speech was auto-censored by a loud beeping sound as he waved his free hand around, "....again, and I needja there to stop him from [more censored beeping]-ing everything up, man."

Rolling his eyes, Dark jerked his neck to the side, sighing as the joints popped back into place. Another roll of the neck to relieve any more pressure, and then he was staring back into the mirror, pliers brought back up to his face as he examined his bleeding mouth once again. "Bing, I'm kind of in the middle of something," he said calmly as he angled his head so he could get a good view of his molars. "Just use his overriding words, and I'll be out in a moment to clean up any damage that might have happened."

"Wellllllll, uh, that's the thing... we can't, well, y'know, exactly _use_ the..." A loud crash sounded behind him, and the glowing ego flipped his shades up to look warily behind him, revealing one eye slightly popped from its socket, held on by a couple of wires. "Y'know what? This [bleep] isn't my problem. [Bleep] that guy. I'm sure you can deal with it, and-"

"Bing," Dark said sharply, pulling the tools once again away from his mouth, staring at the shorter ego.

"Alright, alright chill, boss man!" the off-brand search engine said jokingly with a quick salute, dropping his skateboard to the ground with a clatter and glaring at it as it landed wheels up. "If ya need me, I'm gonna be hunkering down for cover in one of the side rooms. Catchya on the flip side, bruh."

Dark watched the figure behind him with an unimpressed expression as he saw the man try to flip over the board with his foot, ending up just kicking it away with every attempt. Finally just bending down and flipping it over with his hands, he took a step onto it, and then promptly grabbed the wall for support. Using his hands to wall-crawl his way towards the door, he stopped in the entryway, remaining activated eye filled with confusion as he glanced over the other's face.

"Oh and, dude, what's up with your chompers? Looking a lil worse for the wear-"

The door was slammed in the other's face, leaving Dark to merely sigh at the sound of indignation from the other side of the door, promptly followed by a slew of bleeped-out words.

Turning on his heels, the darker ego walked with slow and steady steps back towards the mirror set against the wall. "Alright... just the premolars... and then I'll go see what Googs did," he mumbled under his breath. In one quick, practiced motion, his lower lip was being pulled away from his teeth, the well-used pliers once again gripped a small tooth surrounded by already damaged gums.

And then he _pulled_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who literally forgot about Bingiplier until this very moment and quickly shoved him into a story that he had no purpose being in just because I want to have written every character in this hellhole??? This dude!!! (I say as I conveniently 'forget' Ed Edgar because I can't think of anything to write him into RIP that child trafficker)
> 
> Also I don't mind most things gore-wise, but mouth-horror and messing with nails for some reason is kinda where I... can't... so this is kinda tame and... weird? Mostly off topic because teeth stuff is oof? Honestly, idk, but this is the last one I didn't have an idea for beforehand, so the rest should be decent!


	26. Day 26: Dinner is Served

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 26th- Dinner is Served
> 
> Fandom: Sanders Sides
> 
>  
> 
> _Patton was the only one who didn’t seem bothered by Roman’s absence during dinner._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was just rewatching the 'Accepting Anxiety' videos while waiting for the newest Sanders Sides to be posted (S O S O O N I M SCREEAMING) and I just got a hankering for writing some good ol' Patton and Virgil fluff because they're so pure and... yup. Crappy, and not even really gory, but it's all I got so I'm posting it. ...So I'd recommend skipping, but yeah.

Virgil always looked uncomfortable eating with anyone in the same room as him.

Correction: Virgil looked uncomfortable eating with _Roman_ in the same room as him.

In fact, Patton had yet to see his dark strange son take a single bite of anything while anywhere near the fanciful Side. Movie nights would lead to him reaching for the popcorn bowl in Logan’s lap, only to glance at the princely man sitting opposite him and quickly pull away. Dinners were just him denying he was hungry and messing with his phone as the others ate, only for Patton to find him later scarfing down leftovers in the empty kitchen. He never snacked around him, never ate… Patton wasn’t even sure if the other even _drank_ around the Roman.

He had eventually questioned the darker Side on why he never seemed to eat when they were all together, only for the other to duck his head and mumble that it was nothing.

“Virgil… you know you can tell me anything, with no judgment, right? Please tell me what’s wrong?” Patton pleaded. He didn’t want to push, but he hadn’t seen the kid eat a single bite in nearly three days at this point. Roman had been in attendance for every meal the past few days, as Patton had begun enforcing more ‘together’ time as the pressure of the newest Sanders Sides video was beginning to get to everyone. He had originally proposed the idea so that both Logan and Roman wouldn’t skip meals and overwork themselves, but now he was reconsidering just bringing meals to them individually. “I just… if I’m doing anything wrong, I want to be able to fix it, kiddo. And I can’t really do that if I don’t know what I need to fix.”

He knew that it wasn’t him that was the problem, and he felt just a tad guilty as Virgil’s head immediately popped up, stumbling over his words as he began telling Patton that he was doing absolutely nothing wrong, never had, and in fact was honestly being way too nice to him.

It took a bit more pressuring, but finally, Virgil had told him.

Scratching his neck awkwardly as he let his bangs fall into his eyes, he mumbled that, before he had been accepted as a part of the group, Roman had refused to let him come into the light Side’s part of the mindscape most days, saying that he would only ‘taint the mindscape even more with his darkness.’ Shifting uncomfortably as he fiddled anxiously with his sleeves, Virgil said that included the kitchen, and as he couldn’t get anything from the dark Sides' (he didn’t expound on that), it had left him without food for a days, sometimes weeks, on end. “I guess it’s just… a lingering fear or something,” he said finally, shrugging slightly. “Like, my brain has immediately connoted ‘Roman’ and ‘food’ in a bad way, and I just…” He shrugged again, looking down at his feet. “It’s stupid.”

His eyes flickered up to gauge Patton’s reaction, and the father figure immediately slapped on a calm expression, trying to bite back the boiling anger welling up in his stomach. “That’s not… stupid,” he finally managed to say, voice trembling the slightest as he couldn’t hold back all of the emotion. “The only stupid thing is that Roman thought it was okay to do anything like that."

Virgil just smirked slightly. "Nah, it wasn't even that bad. Nothing to really blame on him, it's just my stupid brain being an idiot again." His smirk slowly fell as the other didn't smile, but merely tried to keep the anger off their face. "But, honestly, Pat," he added quickly. "That’s all in the past. The only thing we have to worry about now is the fact that you’re feeding me too much!" He smirked again. “I mean, in the time I’ve spent with you guys, I’ve nearly lost my lean figure. Seriously, dad. I mean, I can barely see my ribs anymore!”

Patton's heart leaped into his throat at that, and he choked on his words as the anger burning inside him only grew stronger. “Virgil… you’re not supposed to be able to see your ribs…”

The darker aspect paused, and then shrugged. “Whatever. I mean, we’re all just figments of Thomas’s imagination or something, right? We don’t need to eat. Besides, Princey’s right. Me being a little hungry is in no way comparable to any harm I can cause Thomas, so… it was probably for the best, anyways.” Shrugging once more, he just turned back to scrolling through Tumblr on his phone.

Virgil seemed to think that this was fine. That the only concern was that he wasn't participating in family dinners, and that Roman's actions were completely justified.

Patton disagreed wholeheartedly on so, _so_ many levels.

He had some amends to make. Seeing as the one who had caused the problem obviously wasn’t making any effort to heal what damage he had done, Patton would simply just have to take it into his own hands. And considering what Virgil had just told him, he’d start with feeding his dark, strange son the amount that he needed, not just to exist comfortably, but even just for basic health at this point.

Luckily, for as much harm as the fanciful side had caused previously, Roman was going to be useful for something after all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That night, the moral Side had insisted on cooking a huge dinner for the others. Virgil, knowing what this was probably about, had joined the other in the kitchen to tell him that a larger-than-normal meal really wasn’t necessary, that he wasn't even that hungry anyway, but he had just been ushered away from the room before he could get a good look at the messy counters.

“Just hang on the couch and relax, watch a movie, listen to your music or something,” Patton said soothingly, wiping his hands on his stained apron before leading the other Side out into the common area’s living room. “You’ve been so stressed over the past couple days, and you really deserve a break. Now, I order you to relax on this couch or I will physically fight you!!”

Virgil rolled his eyes as he was gently shoved back onto the couch in the living room, a quilt wrapped around his shoulders as the moral side flitted about, trying to make the other as comfortable as possible. Examining the area around him, Patton frowned, and then snapped his fingers, a plate of cookies appearing in his hands.

“There we go!” he said with a smile, taking a step closer to the couch. “Now, when I get back-” His footing stumbled for a second, and the plate slipped from his fingers, leaving Virgil to watch with guilty amusement as the father figure attempted to fumble for the treats, eventually just watching with a horrified look at they fell to the carpet.

“Well…” He looked up at Virgil with a mischievous expression. “I guess that’s just the way the cookie.... _fumbles_.”

He heard a small snort before the other clapped a hand over his mouth. “Did… did you drop them just so you could make that joke?” he asked from behind his hand, trying to hold back his laughter, a few giggles escaping to Patton’s delight.

“...No…?”

“Patton!”

“Total accident, I swear!” He snapped his fingers again, and the cookies on the floor disappeared as another plate of warm cookies, as well as a glass of milk, appeared on the low coffee table in front of the couch. “But you know me and my cookie puns; we’re simply a _batch_ made in heaven!”

Virgil wasn’t sure if he should laugh or throw a cookie at the giggling man.

“Annnnnyway, as I was saying... when I get back, I expect at least half of those cookies to be eaten, alright?” the other said staring down Virgil, who was merely smirking, fringe of purple hair falling over his eyes as he looked down sheepishly.

“Alright, alright, whatever.” He scratched as his neck nervously, pulling it back down only to play with his sweater paws. “And… uh… thanks, I guess,” he mumbled quietly, a light blush barely brushing over his cheeks. “You really don’t… y’know, have to… do this, though… y’know ?” Virgil looked back up at the father figure, who avidly shook his head.

“Virge…” Patton started with a small frown. “It isn’t really about what I have and don’t have to do, it’s about what I _want_ to do. And, right now, I want you to relax, know that you are both loved and wanted, and for you to let me try and make things right. You aren’t a burden on us, kiddo. We genuinely want you here.”

“You guys have already made things right,” Virgil said quietly. “But… uh… thanks, I really… I really do appreciate it.”

“Well, I don’t know if that’s true, but you can bet that I’m sure gonna try!” Patton said firmly. “Now, is there anything else I can do for you before I go back to fixing dinner?”

Virgil’s eyes flickered back down to look at his hands, which were still nervously picking at his hoodie sleeves. “I… uh, actually…” His eyes darted around the room, and then he tentatively held out his arms, shaking slightly as he refused to look up at the other.

Patton ginned widely and practically flung himself into the other’s arms, lightly squeezing the other in a comforting hug. “Aw, you’re too cute!” he practically squealed as the other man melted in his embrace.

He tried to ignore how skinny the other really was under all of his dark layers of clothing.

“Thanks, Pat,” Virgil said quietly, voice muffled in the other’s shoulder. Patton didn’t respond verbally to that, just smiled and ruffled his boy’s hair. Waiting until the other loosened his grip, not wanting to pull away before the other was ready, he stood up and walked back to the kitchen. Calling out a quick reminder that Virgil needed to relax as he stepped through the doorway, he saw the other grab a cookie from the plate, and he smiled before shutting and locking the door behind him.

Taking a deep breath, he looked critically at the mess around the kitchen.

Now, he had some work to do.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Patton, you’ve been in here for quite a while…” Logan froze, and his eyes widened slightly. “Did you make all of this?”

Laughing as he wove around the logical side, Patton set the plates he was holding down on the table. “Yup!” he said chipperly. “Thought I’d try and make something special tonight! I’ve got mashed potatoes and beef gravy, some corn and green beans because... healthy, some rolls, a side of soup- beef based, not creme, don’t worry- and some special steak!” Holding up the last item with a grin, he carefully moved around some of the items already crowding the table and set it down.

Blinking in surprise, Logan adjusted his glasses as his eyes once again glanced over the completely filled surface. "I... I must say, I am quite impressed," he began, an underlying note of confusion flowing through his words. "Have... have I perhaps forgotten... are we celebrating something today?"

"Nope! Just thought I'd try something new, as well as get some filling food into you and Virgil!" Ushering the other into his usual seat, the moral side hummed quietly to himself as he set the places at each chair.

“Patton… should there not be four places?” Logan questioned, eyes glancing over the table as if to count again. “After all, you, Virgil, Roman and I usually enjoy these meals together, do we not?”

Patton just frowned as he fiddled with the utensils. “We’ll only be needing three tonight,” he said offhandedly as he straightened out the dishes, and then bounced back into the kitchen.

“And… why would that be?” Logan asked once Patton had returned, this time arms laden with a large pot of meaty stew.

“Oh….. uh, I guess… because…”

Grudgingly, Patton had set another place for the one who wouldn’t be there before bounding off to go get Virgil from the living room.

“So, should we get started?” Patton had asked excitedly when Logan and Virgil took their respective seats.

“...Shouldn’t we wait for Roman?” Virgil asked after a moment of confused silence. Looking over his shoulder towards the hallway branching off into their respective rooms, he frowned. “Actually… has anyone even seen ‘Sir-Sings-A-Lot’ today?”

Logan shook his head, slight concern etched into his features as he then turned towards the moral side. Patton quickly nodded. “Yup! Checked in on him earlier, kiddo. He was working on a pretty big project, and he was just dying to get me out of there so he could finish it.” Seeing that Virgil didn’t seem to be relaxing, he quickly jumped into some reassurances. “Oh, don’t worry, Virge! I’m sure he’s just… preoccupied. Might as well start without him, huh? I mean, who knows how long it’ll be before he comes down again.” Cutting the meat in front of him, he began methodically dishing out generous servings to the others as he babbled on about Thomas’s day, making sure to give Virgil double portions. After all, this meal was specially made for him.

“...He didn’t even come down when I was watching _Moana_ …” Virgil mumbled as he picked at his food. “He always….”

“Aw, c’mon Virge, it’s not really a big deal,” Patton pleaded, piling more food onto the other’s plate. “Just give him some space over the next couple days; let him do his brainstorming for as long as he needs.” Poking at his steak, he grinned slightly. “After all, creativity is a _medium_ where anything _well_ _done_ is _rare_. He needs all the time he can get.”

“Well, that’s not true. While I do agree that many of his ideas aren’t, uh, very…” Grabbing a packet of notecards from his pocket, the logical Side discretely flipped through the cards under the table, clearing his throat before settling on: “...’ _woke_ ,’ as of late, I….” Logan froze, free hand reaching up to adjust his glasses before fixing the other with a half-hearted glare. “I don't know what exactly the focal point of that statement was, but I feel like it was a pun…”

“Did you just say… woke? Logan, I am burning your vocab cards, that physically hurt my ears.”

Patton just giggled as the two continued their playful bantering, turning back to eating his meal innocently.

Throughout the dinner, conversations seemed to dwindle down until they were left eating in uncomfortable silence. And no matter how much Patton tried to cheer his son with jokes and funny stories, Virgil never seemed to relax fully. Logan seemed uncomfortable as well, throwing strange glances at the unoccupied chair across from him.

Patton was the only one who didn’t seem bothered by Roman’s absence during dinner.

After all, Sides couldn’t die permanently. They were imaginary, just manifestations of different aspects of Thomas’s personality. Eventually, Roman would appear back in the mindscape. As the annoying, insensitive theater geek would probably sing from ‘Hamilton,’ “it’s only a matter of time.”

Which, honestly, made it all the more perfect. After all, Virgil deserved fresh meat every time.

In the meantime, he could start making more dinner plans. For tomorrow night, he was thinking pasta. He knew that Virgil had a soft spot for his spectacular spaghetti and meatballs.

Seeing how much Virgil had seemed to enjoy the special steak this evening, he was sure his kiddo would love this new recipe even more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got distracted halfway through writing this because BENDY AND THE INK MACHINE CHAPTER FIVE FINALLY DROPPED I'M DYING and then my mind basically went frazzled from that excitement so... whoops, it kinda _oofs_ out there halfway through but... yeah... Five more days to go!


	27. Day 27: Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 27th: Revenge 
> 
> Fandom: Youtube/MatPat Egos
> 
>  
> 
> _Matthew Robert Patrick knew damn well what he was doing, and the fact of it all just made it sting that much more._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Let's shake things up a bit, shall we?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EhkX4Et8sKU)  
>  Literally a throwaway one because yesterday was h e c t i c and I'm lazy

He never existed.

Or, rather, he _did_ exist, for now at least, but wouldn't for long. Because, soon, it would be like he was never there in the first place. His meaningless appearance in the world would be washed away by the tide of new content washing in through YouTube, pushing any thought towards his being more and more downwards until it was nothing at all. Until _he_ was nothing at all. He wasn't intentionally made to last long, he was just... _made_.   
  
It was confusing, to say the least. 

It was confusing, because he was a smart guy. Being the 'dark' side of someone didn't at all diminish the intelligence that he shared with his creator.

And yet...

...yet for as smart as he was, as smart as he _should_ be, he still couldn't figure out why his creator had done it. Why he had been created when the other knew what would happen.

After all, his maker had said it himself during his one and only video. 

_"...Most Youtubers would use these characters as just one-off jokes..."_

Parts of a throwaway opening sketch. Cheesy, cringey parodies of personas that actually _deserved_ to get thought put into them. ~~What made them so worthy of getting that thought and purpose put into them, anyway?~~

It was what he, what the others, were made for. ' _One-off jokes_.' It was pathetic, that his entire existence was literally a joke. 

After all, his creator knew. He _knew_ what he was doing. There was no possible way that he _didn't_ know what he was playing at. He had said it in the video, he had straight out _said_ it.

_"...The only reason [Darkiplier] continues to exist is that the audience cares about him..."_

Yes, Matthew Robert Patrick knew damn well what he was doing, and the fact of it all just made it sting that much more.

He had created them purposefully, knowing that they wouldn't exist for long. Throwing them into this existence that they had never asked for, and then being helpless to do anything but watch as they merely faded away. Because why would the audience care about some stupid  _joke_ thrown into a video that lots of fans had already criticized. If the actual content, the _non-joking_ part of it wasn't even adored by the community, why would _they_ , the byproducts of some comedic introduction, last long?

He might be a joke, but he sure as hell didn't see anybody laughing. 

All he saw were the flashes of attention, the number of views slowly speeding up, the bits of fanart thrown about centering around him... the overflowing happiness as he, along with the other two, watched with small smiles as they got recognize, noticed, liked... 

...and then the fanart being washed away by other, _better_ egos ~~What made the others so 'good'?,~~ the their smiles slowly dying away until all they existed in was worried silence, the attention slowly dying down until it was nonexistent, the views slowing and slowing... slowing... slowing... until he just...

...He just...

 

...

 

...

 

 

 

 

.  .  .

 

 

...He hadn't faded completely. He was weak, just barely hanging on, but still, he wasn't _gone_ yet. He still lingered, a barely visible shadow of a person whose existence was only fueled by dwindling views and joking Tumblr gifs. 

 Surprisingly, for as weak as he was, he was the last one standing. 'Squirrelpat'... well, he hadn't lasted long enough to even be given a better name than that. The King... well, that title had been taken already by that stupid, pompous, peanutbuttered prick that somehow was still thriving on the attention he had gotten from the Markiplier community- so.... but he still deserved a title, so... the _Prince_ of the Squirrels had faded within a week of 'The Secret Life of Markiplier' being posted. A five second cameo wasn't enough to sustain any ego for long, and yet...

He hadn't even gotten to know the other well, and yet, it had hurt to see him slowly weaken, fading bit by bit until he just... wasn't there. 

'Warfpat' wasn't much better, the ego barely being able to move, let alone communicate with the only other ego left. The Internet had obviously not latched onto his character even as little as they did on his.

...He still wasn't quite sure if 'Madpat' was real, or rather, just his frazzled mind trying to see things that weren't there. Playing a strange role in a musical FNAF series didn't necessarily end up with an ego forming, but he so desperately wanted there to be someone else in this dark landscape besides shivering green-mustached man slowly disappearing in his arms. 

Which just left him, him and his blocky blue aura, him and his atrociously 'edgy' eye makeup, him and his stupid copied suit and dark mannerisms to seek recompense, to get revenge on the one who had planned this torture for them... 

But he could do it, he was sure he could. He might not have much energy, but he could hold onto his form just long enough...

So, Matthew had known what he was doing when he subjected them to this torture, this slow, agonizing, painful existence? 

Well, then he, 'Darkpat' ~~What kind of stupid name was that?,~~ definitely knew what he was doing when he headed out to do this. 

 

 

* * *

  
It had been easy enough to corner the sleep-deprived man on his quick Diet Coke run at one in the morning. His child was asleep in his bedroom, wife having had turned in around midnight after a long night of editing. That just made it all the more easier. He was alone, alone and almost as weak as his nearly forgotten creation. Besides, his family hadn't ever wronged him; he had no intention of hurting anyone that didn't deserve it. 

It was almost too easy.

He had expected a fight from the man who had caused him so much pain, hateful words to be thrown at him, the man laughing as he relished in the dark one's apparent pain. But all he got was a few tugs in protest as his flickering form dragged the other into the shadows on the way to his car, a few noises of protest, and a tired look in his eyes as he was pinned to the ground with hands at his throat. 

And for a second, as he stared into the tired, yet fear-stricken eyes of the man below him, he realized that he and his creator were more alike right now than he thought. 

He quickly pushed that realization aside.

So, what if he was to be forgotten? To fade away with only a handful of people knowing your existence? To disappear knowing that your creator didn't just not care, but deliberately planned your torture?

With his hands around Matthew's neck, watching the life slowly fade away as his thrashing got weaker and weaker...

It put his mind at rest knowing that he'd be taking his creator with him on that trip into obscurity. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, add all these guys into the list of 'Egos I never thought I'd ever be writing ever'


	28. Day 28: Hunted Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 28th- Hunted Down
> 
> Fandom: Youtube RPF/Markiplier&Jacksepticeye Egos
> 
> _“We have you cornered. We have you trapped. We’ve hunted you down, and there’s no place left to go."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just realized that Jack and Mark themselves haven't had much time to join in the fun, so... Just thought I'd remedy that as soon as possible :D

"Well, it was your dumbass decision to hide in the closet like a total cliche murder death!”

“What would you have preferred, the basement?”

"Yes, actually, I would have! At least the basement has a chance of having, oh I don't know, a damn _back door_. What'dya think the chances are of this closet having a back door?" Lightly rapping his knuckles on the back of the impossibly small closet both men had managed to squeeze into, the Irish voice swore as he grabbed the other's hand, stopping the knocking.

"What the hell, Mark, are you trying to lead 'em right to us?"

The deeper voice just scoffed, yanking away his hand from the other's grip, though there wasn't much else to yank it to in the small space they were stuck in. Opening his mouth to whisper a sarcastic comeback at the other, he froze as a chill fell over them.

The temperature dropped impossibly low, and a laughing voice echoed down the hallway.

“C̷o̷m̶̝̻̦̮̭͔̱̦͎̱̻̱̞͈͛̏̾̿e̴ ̵o̶u̶t̵,̷ ̸c̵ơ̴̛̲͔̬̖̬̯͔͉̏̑̀͂̋͛͋͋͑̔̂́͋̌̊̕͜͝m̷̡͈̟̞̙̝̺̰̜͈̼̝̥̲͕͈̌̓͐̅̈́̒̑̃̉̇̈̎̊̿̂̔̍͠͠ë̶͔̺̼͕́̕ ̵͔̞͍̇͌̉̍̔͋̉̉̊̕ǫ̸̡̳̗̭̟͚͓̲̘̼̌̓̃̎͗̂͋̈́͑͂̇́͒̇͋̓̃̚u̵̧̘̱̯͙̔͗̽̈́̐͒̾̎̈͠t̵,̶ ̸w̶h̷e̶r̵e̷v̸e̵ȑ̸̗͈͇͔̪̗̰̯̯̇̐̆̓͂̀̌͌̎̀̋͆̕ ̶̯̞̭̫̄̂̀͗̓̌̆̽̓̈́̂͠y̴̡̧̹͇̫͙͎͓̦͖̘̓̈́̾͛̊̓̅̉͑͋̅̑́̽̍̚̚͜o̸̺̹͠ư̶̛̘̘̮͔̻̬̱̙͕̺̹͘ ̴̛̳͕̳̮̦͍̲̮͔͉͖̦̲̲͜ǎ̶̧̛̪͓̻̻̻̗̭̖̋̒̏͐̈́̓̔͝ͅr̸e̸,” a glitching, sing-song voice echoed around them, both men shivering at the sound.

"This is your fault," the shorter of the two hissed.

"Wh- my fault" Mark sputtered. " _Oh, ja, let's do a collab, laddies_!" he whispered in a horrendously fake Irish accent as the footsteps grew ever closer. " _'It'll provide a great view-boost to both of our channels. The attention that the assholes that are somehow connected to us thrive on totally won't combine and get us in trouble_.' Yeah, totally my idea, Seán, and I completely accept the entirety of the blame!"

"I swear to-"

“It’s pointless to continue running,” another voice cut off the Irishman, an almost whispered rumble of a sound seeming to drill through their ears and straight into their brains. “We have you cornered. We have you trapped. We’ve hunted you down, and there’s no place left to go.”

This time, Mark was the one to swear as Seán stiffened next to him.

"...Fine, fine, whatever man, I take the blame," he finally whispered frantically, fear bleeding into his words as he shifted uncomfortably in the small space. "Just... we gotta get outta here."

Mark just sighed, nudging the other in a friendly manner. "It's not... I just.. I didn't mean to lash out or anything; it' s really not your fault. I just... I really don't want to die today, y'know?"

"Feeling's mutual."

"Well, I'd hope so, otherwise we'd have a different problem to focus on. So, I'm thinking, if we-"

"Sh!" A smaller hand was slapped over Mark's mouth, and even in the precarious situation that they were in, he had to fight the childish urge to lick his hand.

And then the footsteps were passing... slowly and slowly moving away until...

Mark let out a sigh of relief as the two men outside reached the end of the hall, and a door slammed shut.

It was only then that he licked his friend's hand.

"Ew- Mark, what the hell?" But he could tell the other didn't mean it, seeing a relieved smile in the dim light, feeling the other's tinier body relaxing slightly in the cramped space.

"Couldn't resist," he whispered cheekily. "Now, let's get out of this hellhole, shall we Seánny-boy?"

His hand reached for the brass knob, fingers nearly grazing the surface when the door was suddenly yanked open, revealing the two that the Youtubers were trying so desperately to avoid. Frozen in place, they could only watch as Anti leered at them, glitching smile only widening as he played with his knife on his already abused and bloody fingers, Dark merely giving them a small, but smug, smile.

"G̴̥͊ö̸̗́t̵͇̋c̸̲̒ĥ̸̪a̶̘̐!"

 

* * *

  
They took Sean first.

Maybe it was because the Irishman's counterpart didn't have as much patience as his own. Dark liked to toy with his prey, while Anti went straight for the kill as soon as he was able. Sure, he made it painful, but it was quick and bloody, and then it was over.

Or maybe it was because they liked Mark's screams a lot more than Seán's.

It certainly seemed that way. In fact, the green haired glitch had seemed visibly disappointed when his voice gave out to scratchy whimpers.

"̴̙O̴̖͗ẖ̵́,̵̱̈́ ̷̨̽c̶̛̗'̸̛̹m̸̦͂o̵̫͊n̸̪̉ ̶̥̂M̶̺͌a̴̤͘r̶̗͑k̴̟̽ḭ̷̌e̷͚͝m̴͍͝ȯ̶̖o̶̮͂,̴͖͑ ̶̥̑d̸̨̒ö̶͚n̸͚͋t̷̩̍c̷̯̒h̷͚̃a̸̼͌ ̸̥͝ḧ̵̥a̴̖̍v̶̿ͅȩ̵̎ ̴̠͋ǎ̵̻n̶͚͝y̶͕̔ ̸̨̀ş̵̎ċ̸̳r̸̳͝e̵̜̊a̴̮̒m̸̫̀s̶̗͠ ̸̨̀l̷͈͆ẹ̵͛f̸̲̕t̴̡̏ ̵̘͗f̵͕͗ó̷̧r̵̜̎ ̷̯̏J̷̦̊á̶̜ĉ̴̤k̵̹͑i̷̬̓ȇ̵͎b̴̞͠ŏ̸̹ỳ̴̢?" he had taunted, holding up his friend by the brutal grip his fingers had in the long brown locks. Dazed eyes blinked open, and for a second, their gazes connected.

A slice, a choked scream, a thump as an abused and broken body slammed onto the concrete, a spray of warmth as the insane man giggled, whipping the now severed head around to spray blood everywhere.

And as he stood there, not even fighting in Dark's hold anymore, body numb, heart clenched because _his friend was dead his friend had just died in front of him and he was next_... the still-functioning part of his mind entertained another solution.

Maybe... it was intentionally all part of the plan.

For Seán, it had all been about physical torture, physical pain.

But he knew how Dark worked; had been stuck with his dramatic ass for years at this point. He not only liked to take time with his prey, but also play with it. Both physically and mentally. And if his friend was subjected to all of one, then...

For him, it was going to be mental. After all, wouldn't slowly driving one insane after brutally torturing and murdering their friend just be the most entertaining way to play with the man completely at your mercy?

He vaguely felt himself being pulled into a standing position, body still numb, mind barely moving as he heard the high glitched voice ~~that still sounded so close to and yet so different from _his_~~ exchange words with the low-voiced rumble.

After all, they were the hunters, and he was the prey.

The hunters were too damn good at their jobs to not catch and jump on the first mistake their prey made and make the most out of it.

For a split-second, in a thought of complete honesty, he wished his death would be as short and brutal as was for his friend.

...

...

But as he felt the cold fingers dance over his neck, the sharp stings digging into his back, the words being whispered into his ears...

Well, he knew that was only going to be a wish.


	29. Day 29: Sewn Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 29th- Sewn Together
> 
> Fandom: Sanders Sides
> 
>  
> 
> _The fusions from 'Steven Universe' have always fascinated the Sides._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...this prompt actually could've worked for puppets... maybe? If I stretched it? Cool coincidence???
> 
> ... yeah I'mma be ranting about the newest video in the final notes because gosh darn it nobody irl watches the Sanders Sides with me so I gotta rant about it here. But! I already had this one planned out so here we go, last SS chapter of the month (I think?), and finally a chapter done on time!

_In._

A prick of pain, a sharp intake of breath.

_Out._

A flash of silver flecked with red, a tiny spurt of blood following the needle as it made its exit from the other's skin, and a short sigh of relief as the pain dulled.

_Tug._

And then it was burning, an uncomfortable pulling, flaming feeling as he gave the sturdy twine in his fingers a gentle pull, shivering at the sensation of pricking thread wormed its way in, under, and out of his skin, following the path the attached needle carved for it.

It was unexpected, really, and Logan was continually beating himself up for that foolish oversight. The thread. Of course, the _thread_ would cause more discomfort than the _needle_. Logan had accounted for the needle's harm, informed the others of the discomfort that it would entail, and made sure to sterilize it before use. But he hadn't even considered what the real pain would come from. Whether slow or in sharp tugs, it made no difference. The twine rubbed against skin, feeling like the punctures were receiving rope burns as a steady hand continued the pattern.

"Specs, could you hurry it up a tad?" the mouth held close to his hissed into his ear.

Logan merely ignored him, continuing the stitches leading up the side of his chest. His arm throbbed as he attempted to keep a tight hold on... who was beside him? Roman, perhaps? Well, whoever it was, they needed to be as close as possible if the stitches were going to hold as well as they needed to. Arm looped around the shoulders of the Side to the right of him, his left hand kept a continuous pace. _In, out, pull. In, out, pull. In, out..._

...His arm was in the way. Perfect. If they wanted this form to hold, they'd need to be connected from their hips to the absolute top of their shoulders, and having this useless hunk of flesh would be impeding that route of connection. 

"Patton," he said through gritted teeth, letting his remaining leg relax a tad, relying on Virgil and Roman's remaining appendages to keep their being standing. "My right arm. It's in the way."

"You got it, Teach!" a cheery voice called from behind him. "Just like the legs?"

Logan just nodded, inhaling calmly as his shoulder bumped once again against the bleeding stump where Roman had already removed his. The fanciful side had argued with Virgil over who's arm would be reattached to their fusion's left side, but in the end, the anxious side had won. The bloodied, purple-clothed arm sewn just off to the left of Logan's abdomen still twitched slightly, but the careful black stitches grafting it onto his skin seemed to be holding well enough. "Yes, precisely. Be sure to do the same as you did for Roman: cut just above the shoulder bone so that the break is easier."

"Will do!" was the other's response as they all stumbled to the right, legs and arms pinwheeling to keep themselves upright as Patton reached for the tools once again. "Oh dear, you're right. The arm is definitely in the way," the moral Side mused, and Logan felt a sharp sting on his upper shoulder. "Very _cleaver_ of you to notice that, Lo!"

Vibrations traveled through Logan's body from the face pressed tightly against his own, the laughter bubbling from the anxious Side's throat almost loosening the threads keeping their cheeks together. "If the progress on our face is ruined as a result of you laughing at that idiotic play on words, I swear..."

His other part stopped laughing. "Sorry, L," he said quietly. There was a moment of silence as the saw was drawn back and forth over his shoulder, back and forth, back and forth, until...

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," the quiet voice from beside him mumbled, and he struggled once again to place a name to it. Pat... Virgil? Yes, that was Virgil. Perhaps he was beginning to regret calling the upper side of the fusion. Maybe he didn't like where his arms were being relocated?

"What do you mean?" he asked calmly, trying to keep his voice steady as the rhythmic back and forth continued to play at his shoulder. And _dammit_ , it _hurt_ , hurt almost as much as the leg, but it couldn't be helped. At least he had been lucky enough to be a part of the stabilization of their fusion; he wasn't sure if he'd be able to deal being in Patton's position. After all, a complete lower-body amputation had to hurt quite a bit more than a simple arm and leg combo. But still, the moral side kept on grinning, even from his probable uncomfortable position stitched between Roman and Logan's backs. Sure, the stitching carrying the weight of a full-grown (...well, he guessed,  _half_ of a full-grown man, now) was definitely strenuous, but it was bearable. 

"Just... maybe..." Virgil was biting at his... Roman's?... nails now, only pulling them away as Patton gently admonished him on breaking that particularly harmful habit. Logan's back arched slightly as the knife finally cut through, disconnected limb now falling to the floor, but he managed to keep his scream bitten back in his throat. "Just... y'know, maybe this isn't the best way to... y'know... y'know?"

Once the pain had faded, leaving his mind to once again work as it should, Logan opened his mouth to explain that no, he _didn't_ know what the other was referring to, when Patton cut him off. 

"Oh, c'mon kiddo! You were the one that brought up fusions in the first place!" he said cheerily as the knife dropped to the floor among the discarded body parts that didn't fit on the final design. "Being a part of a a greater whole, feeling connected... feeling wanted as a part of a larger entity?"   
  
"Well, yeah, but-"

"Oh, c'mon doom and gloom, are you really backing out now? When our fusion's nearly complete?" Roman scoffed... Virgil... scoffed? No Virgil was the one talking before... Patton's...? No... Logan... no,  _he_ was Logan, why was he...?

His fingers were continuing the pattern as his mind slowly spiraled, the voices arguing around him melding together into a too-loud, too-messy mix of sounds.

_In, out, pull._

Why couldn't he think straight?

_In, out, pull._

"We're, I'm nev... _they're_ never, we, I, **I** am never straight," voices stumbled over one another as the arguing continued in the background. Or had it already stopped? The voices kept bouncing around his mind, and he wasn't even sure if the argument had even been verbal.

In, out pull.

 _ ~~They-we-u~~ s-I_- **he** lurched to the side as legs fumbled over eachother, throwing off Lo... _Pat?_... the **_being_**  from their stitching. Now shaking hands quickly continued the pattern as the voices kept trying to get over eachother. 

In, out, pull. In, out, pull. In, out...

The needle pulled short, the twine running thin. Separate yet conjoined hands messily worked together to tie the end in a simple knot.

The fusion was complete. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay h e c k umm... how about that new video huh???
> 
> SPOILERS FOR THE NEWEST VIDEO BELOW I GUESS IF ANYBODY CARES? Just skip tbh I'm just kinda emotional that it came out and gotta let that loose somewhere so here's some _super_ coherent, detailed notes that I had on the subject and just me totally not ranting:
> 
> -There are moments in my life where I have to step back and reevaluate the weird stuff I watch on YouTube, and the moment Patton turned into a puppet, I whispered “what the fuuuu” and realized that this was one of those times. 
> 
> -Patton's puppet though like aw bby you tried so hard and that just makes it so adorable 
> 
> -"Logan!!!" *points at self* "It's Patton!!!" and logan doesn't even acknowledge him like no specs please he's too cute and happy to see you at least say hi you friggin' nerd 
> 
> -Roman also has vocab cards for his weird sayings y e s 
> 
> -“OH MY GOSH I WILL KILL BOTH OF YOU….WITH MY BARE HANDS…and this sword.” 
> 
> -Logan is... sexually attracted... to due dates?
> 
> -"Uhh... hey kids! Daddy and Daddy are just having a little discussion, that's all, just focus on Daddy and everything will be A-O-K!"
> 
> -“I know that face... My child is returning!” PATTON @ VIRGIL IS THE ENTIRE FAMDOM I S W E A R
> 
> -I’m s h o o k e t h Patton became 10000% more dad if that's even possible 
> 
> -"YOU GAVE ME A DAD THEMED NICKNAME" _b l e s s_ I needed more Patton/Virgil father/son interactions and there were S O M A N Y
> 
> -stretchy limbs freaking thomas out
> 
> -I actually choked when Logan said ‘Same Size’ like oh what a beautiful nerd you need to stop before you hurt yourself
> 
> -"I'm shooting straight, even though I'm gay."
> 
> “Get naked? Everyone, get naked?” *taking off shirt* “Everyone...?”
> 
> -VIRGIL CARING ABOUT PATTON’S CONTRIBUTIONS GIVES ME L I F E 
> 
> -How many times has Patton literally just derailed entire emotional conflicts by tossing coloring books and fidget toys at the others???
> 
> -when Patton said 'waka waka' I immediately got Picani flashbacks and had to check to make sure I wasn't watching Cartoon Therapy... I might be watching these videos too much...
> 
> -“When you lo- _cARE_ for someone, nothing hurts more than their scorn-“ VIRGIL N O MY BBY YOU CAN SAY THAT YOU LOVE THEM
> 
> -I WAS JUST WAITING TO SEE WHETHER IT WOULD BE LOGAN OR ROMAN ANGST AND WHOOPSIEDOODLES I NEVER EVEN CONSIDERED BOTH IN THE SAME VIDEO?
> 
> -PATTON??? ACKNOWLEDGING HIMSELF BEING SAD??? AND THAT HE KNOWS IT'S OKAY NOW???
> 
> -PA T TO N HA S NOW CA N O TI CALLY HU G G E D VI R G IL L I FE IS OKA Y
> 
> -LOGAN AND THOMAS IN THE SAME FRAME I LOVE HOW FAR THEY'VE COME WITH THEIR EDITING 
> 
> -Patton poking himself in the eyes with his glasses when Logan finally gave into the puppet schick I shouldn't have laughed as hard as I did
> 
> -Virgil feeling comfortable enough to tell Patton that calling him 'innocent' and 'angelic' or whatever makes him uncomfortable like yes bby you do you and Pat is totally gonna be cool w/ that?
> 
> -...but also does he feel uncomfortable because he still paints himself as the bad guy because no my dark shadowling that's not truuuuuuueeeeeeeeee
> 
> -honestly just the whole video
> 
> -CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT MY BOYS HAVE COME SO FAR
> 
> -Logan and Roman finally coming to some sort of a standstill just ahh my boys
> 
> Basically I was like 'wtf' when the puppets showed up, but it was a well put together video with a good discussion that I actually needed to hear, especially with trying to create something each day for this Goretober and not being 'con-tent' with my content' as Thomas put it, so.... yeah, good vid, man. Not necessarily my fav of the series, but it was pretty damn good Honestly idk I just really liked the video and wanted to rant about it somewhere, so I mightaswell put it in the end notes where it's there, but out of the way xD


	30. Day 30: Til Death Do Us Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October 30th- Til Death Do Us Part
> 
> Fandom: Youtube/Markiplier Egos
> 
> _Senpai was only playing. And Yan would play along because he loved Senpai._
> 
> Trigger Warning(s): Inferred Suicidal Attempts, Suicidal Thoughts, Cutting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've played around with the idea of 'Yandere' too much this month to not eventually get to Yandereiplier. So... here we are. 
> 
> It's past midnight at this point so this might just be a half-asleep incoherantly written ideas but I'll just post and check the damage in the morning lol

It was fast, too fast, pointing to their chest, glinting with blood from slit wrists and almost to fast to stop and, for a split second, there was a glint of something in their eyes that had been missing for so long something tender something soft something like hope and-

"Oh, Senpaiiiiii, you're so silly," Yandere giggled, turning on his heel to spin-kick the knife out the other's shaking hands. The skirt flew up slightly, as was the purpose of the dramatic movement, but his hand settled flirtatiously on his thigh as the spin ended with him facing the other once again, pinning the fabric before it could fly up too high. After all, he wanted to be a bit of a tease. Senpai was surely won over by now, but they were certainly going to get a little show before things went too far.

"I... I d-d-don't... p-plea-se...." the other whimpered, hands pulled defensively to their chest, breath coming in short gasps.

"No need to explain, Senpai," Yan whispered as if his words were a secret meant only for the other's ears, head ducking down slightly to let red-dyed locks fall in front of his eyes. Looking up seductively through the strands, eyes half-lidded as they scanned over the other's body, his tongue flicked out to lick the blood from his worry-bitten lips before he took a step closer. "I know you were just playing around, you silly, _silly_ , Senpai."

Their pupils only dilated as the other stepped closer, effectively pinning them against the wall. A quick movement, Senpai throwing themselves to the side in an effort to start another one of their favorite games, but Yan was quick to grab their arm, spinning them around so that their back hit the wall once more. His body pressed theirs against the cold brick, and he sighed lazily as he nuzzled the other's neck with his nose.

He would normally indulge Senpai in their little games, but... right now, he just wanted it to stop for a second. After all, relationships weren't always fun and games.

And, as the blood trickled between his fingers, the grip on Senpai's wrists loosening slightly as Yan realized the damage... he had to admit that the games weren't always so safe, either. He was always up for whatever Senpai wanted to play at, but sometimes...

"Oh, Senpai," he sighed quietly, thumbs gently brushing over the mutilated skin of their arms and wrists. "You're so devoted to these little playtimes we enjoy..."

"Y'need... p-please, j-j-just le-et me o-o-out," Senpai only whimpered between stuttered breaths, and their arms fought against Yan's grip as they made to scratch as their wounds again.

"I treat you so well," he murmured as he pulled away slightly, hands raising to trace the outline of the other's perfect face. He scowled as his own fingers left bloody marks on the smooth, perfect, beautiful skin, and trying to wipe them away only smeared them more. "I feed you only the best... I play with you oh so gently..." His hands fell to cup the other's face, and he leaned forward so that their faces were only inches apart. "Only the best for you, Senpai. Always the best for you."

A quick and tender kiss, and then Yan pulled away, just giggling like the schoolgirl he was as Senpai stumbled for stability, and then promptly threw himself into a sprint for the basement door.

Yan knew that Senpai was only playing around like this. He had seen the knife once again in Senpai's hands, and he knew that he was once again trying to get out. It was a little joke between them, a weird one, sure, but who was a lowly person like Yandere to judge the perfect angel that was the being they were so lucky to ensnare?

Senpai was only playing. And Yan would play along because Yan loved Senpai. Yan loved them so, so, so, _s̶̞͝o, so, so,_ **ś̵̙͔͈̘̣̙̼̤͕̻̏̾͐̑͒̓͂͊́̔̓O̷̧̢̝͕̰̰̟͓̹̗̤̩͎̿̉̈͌̓̍́̿̈͋̏͆͒̀͂͜** very much.

But sometimes the playing had to stop, because, of course, neither of them wanted it to go too far. Senpai didn't really want to escape, didn't really w̵͔͝a̵̟̓ṇ̸̀t̶̞͋ ̶̫͠t̴͚̆o̵͋ͅ ̴̲͗ď̴̻i̶̫̿e̶͓͝, to commit s̴̞̾ű̴̺ī̷̞c̵̣̓i̸̛̜d̶̥́é̴ like they pretended to want to do and leave Yan all sad and lonely, and so Yan played their little game until he had to lock them back up again for their own safety.

“You know the words, Senpai,” Yan purred in the other's ear. “‘Til death do us part,’ remember? You remember; you're so smart! But don’t worry, Senpai! That’s not going to happen for a long, loooooong, time.” Eyes glinting dangerously, their bloodied fingers trailed Senpai's face once again, mapping out their game's scars littering the pale skin. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

The look in Senpai's eyes as Yandereiplier said those last words so protectively just made difficult game days like this worth it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe tomorrow's the end... and I still have no clue what I'm gonna be doing xD Whoopsiedoodles, guess I'll get there when I get there....
> 
> If you've made it this far, thought, just... thank you for reading. For leaving kudos, if you did, for leaving comments if you felt like it, or even just being a silent reader. Thank you. For giving this a chance. Selfish as it probably is, I really do appreciate it. 
> 
> _also I'm like legitimately terrified the zalgo text on my word docs from previous chapters is actually glitching this might be the end for me..._


	31. Day 3̸̺̅31: Af̶͉̃termath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oct0ber 31st: AFTERMATH
> 
> Fandom: : : :: : :: 
> 
> Summm̸͎͉̲̞̱̞̬̞̖̹͓͈͔̻͈͑͐͠m̴̳̯̆̆̏͆͛̇̎̈̈́m̸̪̄ṃ̴̢͖̜͍̠̰̗̓̐͂̓̈́͛̾̂̉̒̀͌̚̕͝m̸͇̥̖̱̱̞̝̫̙̭̻̜̥̰̌̄̿͂̑̌͐̿͒͘m̶̡̛̬̤̮̲͛͌͒͊̎̈̓̋͂̓̚m̷͎̘͑̑̈́̐́̒͗͛͘̕̚͝m̸̧̦͎̹͙̬͕͍̠̬̘̐̑̓̔̉͛̌̿͊̔̕͠m̷̼̅̋ͅmmmary: __ ___ ___ __ _ __

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> W̸̮͊̉ͅȅ̴̤̐͘ ̸̩͇͎̺͐̉t̶͍͎̮͐̌h̶͙̕͝ĭ̵̢̱̀n̶̡͚̱̎͋͊̚k̸̥̊ ̵̹̞̔͐̐ͅi̶̬͎̒͗͋ţ̸̺̹̲'̶̳̃̀͛s̷̞̋͆̄ ̵̱̤̹̂͐͋͝t̶͈͇̪̐̈́͐̓į̷͝m̶͈̑̏͋͘ê̸͙̦̈́ ̸̜̃̐͠ŝ̸͈ő̴̡̻͇m̵̼̑̊ͅe̶̤̒ö̵͍̹̳͎́̿́̊n̶͎̈ë̴̠̂̋͝ ̶̡̲̈́͑ _ę̶̫̺̣̆́l̸̥͍̅̈́͆̅s̸͂͜͝e̶͎͐_ ̶̘̠̈́ͅs̴͍̳͚̘̍u̴̧̢͎͒̃̈́ͅf̸̛͔͎̀̉f̵͔̼͎̞̃̆̒̉ȅ̵̠̠̘̌͒̃r̷̨̯̦̼̎̈̐ę̶̬̠̥͑͑d̵̙̻͛͂͛ ̵̰̭̻̋̿̈́f̷̰̉͊̾͗ǫ̴͉̳̿ŕ̵̺̍̈́ ̵͖̅͌̕͠a̴̫̪̋͛̎͌ ̶͇̹̓c̴̟̯̪͗̽h̵̞̚a̷̺̣͛ͅñ̸̢̖͎̮̾̕͝g̸͓͂̄̕e̶̱̖͐̋͋.̵̣̜͐ ̷͖̼̑̑̋͛
> 
> Ă̷̞̔̊͠f̷̳͕̱̍̐t̶̟̣̊̈ē̵͍̓̌̈́r̴̡̧͓͖̈́ ̷̢̞͉͇͛ḁ̵͍͐̉̍l̸͔̻̹̞̄̌̍̚l̷͕̆͋,̷̢̘͔̊ͅ ̸̗̘̏̓̐̚s̶̡̳̽̈́̃̎ę̵̲̓̽̋͜ë̷͓́̃̾i̷̧̘̜̩͂͌̈́̚n̴̳̻͊̒̾̕g̸̖̀̉ ̷̖̄̚t̴̛̺̞̋̓͝h̵͙͓̖̳͘͝e̴̘̲̖͋͆ ̸̨̪͔̣̓̈́̕͘š̴̻̗̩a̶̫̠͍̲͌̌̓ṁ̴̜̗͚e̵̼̙̰̔̆̚ ̷̳̞̪̾c̴͍͇̾͊h̸̗̯̏̚a̵̼͍̓̏r̷̨͂͠a̶̺̣̎̇c̶̮̲͕͔̈́͛̕t̸̼̝̦͐̏̐͘ȅ̵̫r̶̞̯͙̍̃͜s̶̙͓̽̃̉ ̵͇̩͖̤̒̊̏̀b̵̻̟̳̠̄͆ę̸̼͇̆͌̅i̶̦͐̂ṇ̸̍̌̔̾ġ̷̦ ̸̡̖͋h̴̙͈͝ͅu̷̜̝̫͓͊͗ṛ̷͙̞́t̸͓̮̿͂̉ ̸̘̅o̵̧̜̮̣̚v̸̛͉̊́͜͠ȩ̵̎́̓͂ȑ̸̖̗ ̷͙̦͇̓̕ą̶͔̮̊̅n̵͇̩̹̺̈́̾̚̚d̴̦̟͑̋͋͛ ̴̤̘̟̀o̵̪̓v̶̳̤̫̹̽̆e̷̛̹̥͇̋̂̋r̶̨̙̺͆͆̅̎ ̶̹͋̕a̷̭̻̠̥͒g̵̘̔͆͌a̶̺̪̓̆̕̕i̶͉n̴͖̰̫̔ ̶͇́m̷͎̦̟̈́̓ǘ̵͈̯̏̿̽s̴͉̦͗͘͜ṫ̴̻͇͙̌̑ ̴̗̩̓͂̾͂j̸̹͆͌͆̐u̷̪̙̔̽ͅs̷̞̘̝͒͜t̷͖̞͒ ̴͍̻͑̿̄͜b̷͎̐̀̂ę̴̟̥̞̉̅͝ ̸̯̈́͗͒̚t̶̞̮̪͗͂͆̕͜o̶̘͠ŗ̵̺͛̊̚t̴̠̂̍̔͠ū̴̬̘̺r̴͓̞͍̂̾e̸̙͌ ̵̝̇f̷̠͖̳̬̆ṓ̵̡̈̑r̸̨̗͇̠͗ ̴͔̥͚͆ͅy̴̢̖͌̒ǒ̶̘u̵͍̰͝ ̶̨̆̎t̴͎͔̳̔͂͋̊o̸͙̮̚ ̴̥̥̐͆͊͜r̵̩͎͎͊e̵̫̜̪͑̐̃̓ͅá̴̢͖́d̴͕̝̳̆̍̓.̴̟͝ ̷̺̏́́͘

Thirty days.

They had managed to turn out something for thirty days, and they’d be damned if they couldn’t find something to finish off the month.

“Aftermath… after… math…” they mumbled to themselves, turning slowly in their swivel chair. Maybe they could turn around the definition, do something funny about something after a math class, or... something? Baldi’s Basics, maybe? Immediately shaking their head, their fingers drummed on the surface of the desk. They’d done this entire thing with the Egos and Sides, and they were going to stick with that. 

Besides, that was a stupid idea. Definitely one of the worse of the unused ideas slowly piling up at the bottom of a messy Google doc.

Maybe the definition of the word could spark an idea? It had definitely gotten them started on Day 7’s ‘Transformation’ prompt. Fingers slowly tapping at a banged-up keyboard, the aspiring author clicked on a few websites, finally settling on the usual dictionary.com definition.

“Alright… _‘aftermath,’ noun… something that results or follows from an event, especially one of a disastrous or unfortunate nature; consequence…_ ’ great?”

So… maybe… the aftermath of each of the stories? Those were all ‘disastrous events,’ they guessed. Maybe they could somehow combine the random bits of the month into some megaverse? I mean, the thought of crossing over the egos and Sides had been brought up by their beloved ‘Random Commenter’ in one of the first chapters, and the thought had been there ever since then...

 ...but they weren’t sure they could, well… write that. Or, at least, write it well enough to feel satisfied with it. After all, they already struggled to portray individual fandoms correctly, but pushing two completely separate ones together and trying to work out interactions while still staying in character?… Yeah, that would be an epic fail. As for a ‘megaverse’... there were so many different versions of each of the characters at this point, from nice/demented Anti, to various stages of insanity that the other characters had been shoved into. The author hadn’t started out the series with the same universe in mind; each had been its own separate thing, and it would be hard to try and fit everything into one chapter without any previous planning and with the time on the clock slowly ticking down towards the deadline.

And… geez, they still hadn’t even written an ending note, had they? It was going to have to be something good, a way to finish off the month by thanking everyone who had read the messily thrown together crap-bundle of a Goretober that this was. Still surprised it had gotten any kudos, let alone any comments, it would be difficult to put the gratefulness the author felt into words, but the readers definitely deserved whatever crappy ‘thank you’ that they could manage to write out. A big thank you to those who had also done their own prompts, but still took time to give the author’s ones a shot, like StarlightXNightmare and Anxiety_Induced_Romance. A big thank you to those who had commented, brightening the author’s days with keysmashes, screaming, insights, or heartfelt(?) compliments that made the author feel way better about their works than they should've. A big thank you to anyone who left kudos, the silent readers that still offered their support, heck, to those who had even given the works a shot, really.

...Yeah, they weren't sure how they were going to word that. After all, it was important, but they never really had been too good with their words.

Oh, and Subtle_Shennanigans would definitely need to get some sort of special… thing? After all, she had started this whole thing with her own Goretober prompt list, as well as sharing her ideas, being a general ray of sunshine, breaking the author’s heart over and over with her incredibly written works, and…

Groaning, the author tugged at their hair, staring at the still-blank Google doc in front of them. “One thing at a time,” they quietly muttered to themselves. “First things first, you have to write the final chapter. Then you can worry about heartfelt endnotes.” 

..or maybe they should just write the endnotes first? They really weren't getting very far with this whole 'writing' thing, anyway… Or maybe they should just quit this whole thing all together and just go rewatch ‘ _The Office_ ’ for the fifth time...

And then a heavy hand fell onto their shoulder, gripping much too tightly to be comfortable.

“October 1st…” a smooth voice suddenly whispered in their ear as the author jerked around in their seat, hands immediately flying up to either attack or protect.

 Their arms only made it a few inches away from the keyboard before more limbs grabbed them in iron grips, pinning their wrists to the armrests as more grabbed at their ankles to stop them from kicking out in fear. 

“‘ **Extra Limbs** ’…” The voice had now multiplied into two... three... eight... all sounding vaguely the same, but with different accents and tones...

...All in that same, all-too-familiar voice...

The author froze, words sticking in their throat even as their mouth moved soundlessly in fear.

 Before they could even process what was happening, what they were hearing, the shadows at the edge of the vision they were seeing, and they honestly hadn't had enough caffeine to process all this so late at night, they were roughly pulled from the chair from the many limbs that still held tight grips on them.

“October 2nd…” A noise of a knife being slid from its sheath, and then a slice through the air as a gleaming knife blade found its way to the author’s throat. The now-shaking author was shoved forward into someone else's grip, and then pulled back before the knife could dig too deep, leaving a small, stinging scratch to trickle warm blood down their front.“ **‘Blood Sport,’** wasn’t it?” 

“Fô̷͖͆͘l̷̞̝̮̋l̴̮͈͍̈̆ö̴̟̱́͠͠ẁ̶͕̗̤͝e̶̺̔ͅd̷̤̑ ̶͔͎̫͊̃b̸̯̳̐̍͝ỷ̵̫̣ ̸̙̞̣͑̓Ó̴͓̿͜c̶̞̅̈́t̷̳̊̒̍ŏ̵̡̬̜b̵͙̪͈̄͑̒e̴̝͋r̷͉͜͝ ̴̖̺̓3̸̱̦̀ͅr̸̠̙͋͗̎d̶̤̈́̿,̸͕̅̉”̶̳̭͑,” a gravely, choked voice managed to say. “‘ **P̶͍̐̚l̷̥̏͠a̶̙̖̔́ỳ̸͍̐i̵̡͝n̵͖̓g̸̰̈́ ̷͉̽w̵̪͙̽i̸̹͖̇̀t̴͕́̓ḧ̷͔́ ̸̮̆Kṋ̴̇̍î̶̢v̵͎̀e̴̡͛̑s̴̹̀̊**.̸̬̄’̸̖̥̾̈́ ̶̤͠B̸̹̦͒͒o̷̫̓̊ý̵͙̎,̶̛̭ ̷͍̾͑y̸̼͍͂o̴͌ͅụ̵͒ ̸̨̀̈h̶̪̅͋a̷̤̽͜ḑ̴̐͝ ̵̘͌͘͜f̵͓͓̈́u̸̡̽n̵̲͕͑͆ ̸̳͌ẅ̷̳̦̽ḯ̸͓͊ț̷̈́́h̷̨͐ ̶̫͂t̷̺̏̈́ḧ̵̠́ḁ̴̮̾̌t̷̙͙̿͊ ̸̟͍̀̽ò̵͎̕n̷̲̗͌͂ḙ̸͉̉,̶̢̣̋̃ ̸̩̈́d̵̹͈̍̂i̴͈̚d̴̨͓̉n̵̙͉͆̄’̵̮̓t̷̛͈ ̴̯̉ỷ̷̗o̸̢͕̍u̷̲͎͑̓,̴̟͌̈ ̶̢͐͠K̴͖̈́́?̸̮͈̽̈́ ̸̩̆S̵̟̆̊h̸̫̰͌ǎ̵̖̘m̶͔͔̉͠e̸̝̬͌ ̸̮͐Î̶͈̮ ̸̛͙͗c̷̢̩̓a̴̤͑n̵̡̦̏’̶̢̨͑t̵̛̼͎͗ ̸͕̀s̶̙̈́ȃ̸͓ÿ̶̡̟́̋ ̸͇̦̀t̶h̶͕͈͠͝e̵͍̗̋ ̴̭̭̿s̸̫͆̋a̷͖̞͘m̷̞̘̔ě̷̞͒.̸͈̍͘”̵̞͉̉͝

“And then, October 4th: **‘Horns** ,’” a low, rumbling voice said, and a familiar, eyeshadow-darkened face rose up in the other's vision. “Because making me the villain wasn’t good enough; you had to hurt _him_ . You made me hurt _him_.” 

The knife was removed from the author's neck, body being shoved to the side only to be blindsided by a blunt force hitting their stomach. Falling back into the wall, gasping for air, two figures stepped into their line of vision, one holding a bat over one shoulder. “ **‘Hey, Batter Batter…’** ” The one holding the bat hissed.

There was another crack as the wooden bat hit the author upside the jaw, sending them stumbling to the floor as stars danced in their vision.

“October 5th,” the other voice said in echo, nudging the figure next to him before taking a step back and letting another take their place.

“Immediately followed by October 6th,” the calm voice said in an almost complete monotone. And then the trembling author was being heaved up, pinned against the wall by an iron-tight grip to the throat. “ **‘Drowning** ,’ the first one you were legitimately proud of writing, yet still nervous about posting because you had once again _dove_ into, pardon my pun, a lesser-known fandom of your target audience.”

Water was still dripping from his hair, icy brown eyes blinking past tears as they stared into the author’s terrified eyes. They were choking now, not only from the grip on their throat, but also from the freezing water now filling their lungs. Trying to push words past the liquid surging up in their throat, the author could only choke out a pitiful slew of unintelligible whimpers as salty water poured from their mouth.

And then they were being tossed into another grip as they choked on the last wave of water, a glowing ‘G’ illuminating the darkened vision of the air-starved storyteller. “ **Transformation** ,” the robot said in quiet anger, followed by a scalpel to the stomach. Wiggling it around for a few seconds, he finally tugged the surgical tool back out, wiping the blood-stained tool on the author’s shirt before releasing his grip. He watched with a tight-lipped smile as they fell to the floor with hands clamped tightly over the red stain blossoming on their stomach. “October 7th.”

“You see, K…” a low voice rumbled in the air around them as yet another figure stepped in front of the author curled up on the ground.  Blue and red aura flickering in the darkening room, his hands fell to clasp comfortably behind his back. “ _You_ created us this way. Our initial creators came up with our designs, certainly, and even designed their own brand of torture surrounding our existence. And they will pay for that.” His head jerked to the side, neck cracking unpleasantly as and making the others in the room wince at the sound. “But _you…_ ”

 The front of their shirt was grabbed in a tight grip, knuckles white as they were slammed back into the wall once again. “You **infected** us all, _Du absolutes Arschloch,”_ a thick German accent hissed in their ear before releasing their hold, letting the author fall back to the floor with a whimper as they clawed at the pus beginning to ooze from their eyes.

“October 10th, **‘Hanahaki**.’”

“October 11th…”

 “The twelfth of October…”

The murmured listing of dates and prompts continued as a meaningless background noise as the figures seemed to only multiply in their swimming vision.

“You _hurt_ us all,” a pitifully choked voice continued before breaking off into a coughing fit, the sickly sweet smell of copper and flowers filling the air.

Fingernails dug into their upper arm, biting into soft skin and leaving trailing marks of **scratches** down the author’s arms. “Again,” a low voice hissed.

“And again,” a louder, more angry voice proclaimed, blood from his figure bleeding onto the author’s clothes as he pulled them against his chest, fingers only digging deeper into already torn skin as they struggled for release. “ **Let** ting **the blood stream** across your pages all for a _stupid_ story.”

“And again…” 

Hardwood floor beneath their shaking hands for only a moment, and then they were yanked up in another rough grip.

“Marring our skin with **bruises** and blood, taunting our minds with your **obsession** with making us suffer.”

Aching splotches of purples, blues, and reds trailing across their skin, creating an almost beautiful mix of color both on and spilling from the revealed **inner beauty** behind scraps of ripped skin.

“And _again-_ ”

“Treating us like **insects** just to be squished under your thumb-”

Their arms were fighting to be free, breath coming in gasps as they tried in vain to flick away the feather-light feeling of millions of spiders crawling over their body, up their neck, into their mouth that they couldn’t seem to close tight enough-

“ _15th_ … _16th_ …” 

Their nose was screaming in pain, a sudden yet forceful **nosebleed** sending rivers of scarlet liquid down their face, mixing with tears and blood from other wounds, filling their mouth, leaving them choking once again as the world seemed to spin around them...

“October 17th, remember that screwup?” Fingernails, pressing harshly into their neck, sending shocks of pain through their body. “ **Electrocution** ,’ asshole.”

 “And _again…_ ”  

“...I actually have no complaints,” soft lips whispered against their skin, even as more and more figures crowded around. The soft warmth of a tongue toying on their skin, and then teeth were sunk deep into their upper arm. Author’s head thrown back in a silent scream through tear-filled eyes, the other only chuckled as he dug in deeper, pulling away once he had bitten off a decent sized chunk. “October 18th was a good day for me. Kudos to you,” he mumbled, mouth full as he stepped back and let another take his place. 

“Again and _again_ , torturing us repeatedly in uncreative ways, going in f̵̭̣̂̊u̴̖̿u̷͎̖̐̏u̴̡̗̚͝ǘ̸̖͙͆u̵̧͇̽̃ing circles all to try and impress the **oh so many eyes** of your audience-”

The author was shoved backward, tripping over a bleeding body on the floor. A half-mouth opened in a disgusting manner, brains and blood dripping through the mouth and the missing half of her head, ribs piercing the remaining skin of her stomach, revealing so many, _too_ many **bones sticking out.** “You’ve **ripped** us **apart** ,” her mouth twisted grotesquely, voice watery and deformed.

“You’ve **sewn** us back **together** ,” mixed voices said in perfect unison, a disgusting amalgamation of bodies standing over them as they scrambled back against the wall.

 “All for some stupid _challenge-_ ”

Their arm was being twisted behind their back, so far, _too_ far, they weren’t even that flexible to begin with _please please stop-_

“And, what, hurting us wasn’t enough? You just had to inflict **eye trauma** upon your readers for making them read this thing? This thing that you didn’t even seem to _try_ on.”

A harsh snap, a fiery bolt of pain running through their now bent arm.

 “This thing that you _lost motivation_ for-”

 Tears pouring down their face as their shaking body finally dropped to the floor in a pitiful heap.

“How f̵̭̣̂̊u̴̖̿u̷͎̖̐̏u̴̡̗̚͝ǘ̸̖͙͆u̵̧͇̽̃ing pathetic can someone be to lose motivation for a voluntary, one-story-a-day challenge? You were the one who decided to make each shitfest five-f̵̭̣̂̊u̴̖̿u̷͎̖̐̏u̴̡̗̚͝ǘ̸̖͙͆u̵̧͇̽̃ing pages or more. Knowing they’re just pretending to care, feeling obligated to read, and then forcing so much on them anyway-” 

“And you kept doing it. You kept doing it, day after day, after _day…_ ”

Vomiting blood wasn’t a good sign, was it? But, at this point, as long as the blood wasn’t coming from a new wound in their body, the author’s hazy mind was beginning to consider themselves lucky.

“You’ve **hunted** us **down** , **experimented** with us to your heart’s content.”

 Gagging on the coppery liquid forcing its way out of their mouth, they tried to suck in just one breath of air, just _one_ , their head was spinning too much, make it stop make it stop _make it stop-_

 “October 23rd,” There were hands clawing at their heart now, ripping past fabric to leave gashes in skin. “ **Gorge It Out..”**

 “October 24th, **‘Amputation**.’”

They couldn’t yank away, not from the hands grappling at their limbs, not at the blade that was being pressed hard against their thigh, _too_ hard, s _top please stop stop stop they didn’t’ deserve this-_ not from the fingers forcing something down their throat...

“ **Dinner is Served…** ” a light voice cheerfully giggiled at the same time as another, darker voice whispered, “ **‘Dental’** into their ear. The fingers forcing bloody chunks of things the author didn’t want to know tightened, and their eyes rolled back in pain as they felt and heard a tooth crunch simultaneously.  

No, heck no, _teeth_ , not the teeth, they could barely handle the dentist’s sometimes and now they were struggling to breath again, feeling bloody gums and flesh clogging up their throat, forcing rattling breaths to whistle from their mouth.  

Their breaths came faster and faster until they weren’t sure if they were taking any air into their lungs at all. They couldn’t move, they couldn’t protest, they couldn’t they _couldn’t_ they _couldn’t do anything-_

"Oh, but don't worry," a low voice said soothingly, and through tear-blurred eyes, their hazy mind managed to process the almost gentle touch stroking their hair.

"We'll give you what you so desperately wanted..." 

Everything quieted for a few split seconds, and quiet murmuring and clacks of fingers on keyboard keys echoed around the room.

"...A _story_. That’s all this really was for, wasn’t it? To create a story to give that _lovely_ audience of yours that you're so _desperate_ to win the favor of, so _desperate_ to impress, so _desperate_ to hold onto throughout every one of your shitty stories with the false promise that each one will be better than the sloppy chapters of the day..."

"But... this time..."

The keyboard's noises stopped, and a steady voice filled that empty silence. "'The narrative ego stops to explain that the author has already gotten their turn playing god. That their playthings are now merely wishing to force their tormentor to suffer in the same way they were forced to endure their undeserving punishments.'"

“You brought us into existence, tore us from our intended forms to play with us, to break us and fix us as you saw fit…”

“And until we get recompense for all that hurt… until we get that **revenge** on you for all you’ve done to us, you’re stuck here, honey,” a new voice said with a small giggle.  

“You’re stuck here with _us_ . **‘Til Death Do Us Part,** ’” a lower voice finally finished with a wrong-sounding chuckle.

They couldn't breathe, they couldn't breathe, they couldn't _breathe_ , and the ego holding the author's laptop took a moment to turn away from the text-filled screen in front of him and enjoy the situation of their tormentor finally getting what they deserved. Only one moment, however, for he was a man of his word, and he would uphold his promise. The author bleeding out on the floor _would_ get a story. And if the author's chapter was to be up in time, he would have to make it quick. He hadn't promised it to be well edited, well written, interesting, or even the preferred shortened length. And yes, admittedly, he was being a bit cruel with the length, playing with how much the other truly hated how long some of their chapters were, but...

This was _gore_ tober, was it not?   
  
It seemed as though they were providing more than enough of that aspect. 

He smiled as he heard another pained sound in front of him, feeling the coppery tang of blood enter his mouth as the blood seeping from his bandaged eyes continued its steady stream down his face.  

His fingers fell back to the well-used keyboard, resuming typing with ease as he saw the scene playing out before him in his mind's eye, for once content to let the others help move the story along, and not just take control and micromanage the narrations himself. He watched as more and more figures stepped up to share a bit of their pain with the one who had caused it, stepping aside to only have more and more personas replace them. 

Until there was only one more left. One of the many versions of the personas from the other series, the one with glasses. This one looked angry, but his face was blotchy with tear-filled eyes, cardigan nearly falling from his shoulders and the rest of his outfit in similar dispensary. If the ego were to guess, he would say that this one was from one of the non-'insanity' days, as they had begun to call it, but that thought quickly changed as a nearly crazed look entered his eyes, falling down to kneel heavily in front of the broken form in the center of their messy circle of abused characters. 

  
That was the only one he was glad he couldn't physically see. His mind stayed forcefully blank until the scratchy screams had faded, the only sound now being stunned gasps and heavy breaths from the surrounding figures. 

He only brought himself to 'look' at what was going on once the Side was finished with his job, panting heavily with exertion, but a crazed, proud look in his eyes as he admired his work. Brushing at his now soiled blue shirt in an effort to get some of the mess off, he stood up, staring down at the now visibly shaking form below him. 

He smiled, lips stretching far too wide, showing far too many teeth, and just being far creepier than a smile should have the right to be. His voice was light, but shaking with emotion as he gave the other their little group's parting sentiments. 

_“We hope you enjoy the **ȁ̸̹͇̯̰̩̯̦̦̾͑̿́̈̋͂͘f̸͈̖̺̜̗͋̀͒̏͘͡͞t͎̱̰͕͉̗͖̺̬̆͂̂̽̓ͅḝ̨̬͚͈͔̫͔̙̈̈̓̎͌̄̄̉͢ȓ̟͈̥̜͔̊́̄͑̔͑͠m̵͍̤̤̜͗͌̊̒̽̄̉̀͋͘͟͟ą̞̭͈̺̫͔̩̠͕̎̐̽̿̈́́̋͆͡ţ͇͖̝̬̤̿̐͐͋͑̈͘͢ͅh̢͓͕̼̯̹̻̜͊͒͆̒̀̎͊̊** of your actions, kiddo.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I don't know what this was supposed to be, but hey! Day 1, done! Only 30 more to go... :D
> 
> Edit: Oh my goodness, and the extremely talented Subtly_Shenanigans (check out her stuff; you will _not_ regret it) did an [amazing piece of fanart](https://www.deviantart.com/sirriusthemoonblade/art/Sketch-for-KitKats-Goretober-2018-770728750) for this??? Go check it out and give it some love because it is amazing!


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